


The Naga's Bride

by theaspiringcynic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Soul Bond, The Department of Mysteries is more than just a backdrop, Time Travel, Unspeakable Padma Patil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16313654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaspiringcynic/pseuds/theaspiringcynic
Summary: It is said that a child born under the influence of a love potion will never know love. The gods, in a single act of mercy, bestow upon this child a gift. // Tom Riddle was convinced that this summer would be just as dreadful as the rest until he finds a witch in his bed, bleeding and speaking Parseltongue. // Soul bonds. Time Travel. Prophecies. AU.





	1. Unspeakable Patil

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to JKR for letting us play in her sandbox.

Seven years had passed since the Wizarding World had witnessed the fall of the darkest wizard known to history—Lord Voldemort. Within these seven years, a flurry of marriages and baby carriages frequently went hand-in-hand. Padma Patil herself had been invited to Luna Lovegood's— _soon-to-be Luna Scamander_ , she corrected herself—wedding, probably due to the fact that she hadn’t bullied Luna like the rest of their Ravenclaw alumni. But then again, there was a possibility that she invited most of the 'Claws anyway; Luna always was a kind-hearted girl despite her rather _absurd_ beliefs.

Seven years had passed, and Padma Patil was still as single as ever. While this fact would have daunted other witches, Padma fervently believed that there were better things to do in the post-war vacuum that had resulted from the almost mass chaos that were the first two years after His death. Celebrations had been evident in every street—regardless of Muggle presence. The Ministry had to work overtime simply to make sure that the International Statute of Secrecy was still intact. It was a happy time, Padma would readily admit, but it was also a time marked by grief and slight wariness. They had spent so much of their lives in fear that they were still unsure of their next move. The victory had been rather double-edged— _He_ had been defeated, yes, but the Ministry's corruption was ripped from the veil of deception and apparent for all to see. There was a rush for new blood—people were sacked and hired on the spot. There was an outcry for change throughout the magical community—tolerance was at an all-time high. After all, what better time to give and receive respect than during a war? Blood purists were pushed back to the edges of society; shame was their only companion. Most of the prominent families (read: _pure-blood_ ) had been disgraced, only a few such as the Longbottoms and the Potters still retained their full status. Most had been stripped down to the same status they had been giving to Muggleborns or blood traitors for centuries. They were now social pariahs—a phenomenon they had never experienced in all their centuries of magic and blood and tradition.

Many of Padma's yearmates were given invitations for positions within the Ministry, though many did return to school—if only to complete their N.E.W.T.s like Hermione Granger. Some, however, went straight to work. Padma had gone to the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages to further her studies in Ancient Runes and obscure magical languages. She always had a bit of flair when it came to Runes and Charms. Parvati, her enthusiastic and cheerful twin, had grown quieter mostly due to the death of her best friend Lavender Brown. She was still the brightly-colored fashionista Padma remembered from childhood, but there was now an air of maturity that surrounded her younger twin. Parvati was slightly more subdued now but she still always indulged her twin with gossip.

Her twin was currently dating Seamus Finnigan much to the chagrin of their parents who wanted the both of them to settle down and _marry already_ . But they seemed pacified by the continued promise of settling down into their careers before establishing a household. Parvati, to nearly no one's surprise, went straight into fashion and began designing clothing especially dress robes; she even did a bit of an apprenticeship with Madam Malkin before selling her creations by herself. Padma often felt nostalgic whenever she wandered into her sister's flat, snorting at the wizard's dress robes because of the memory of their ill-fated dates to the Yule Ball. She and her sister usually still had a good laugh at the horrendous reminder of a certain Weasley's _vintage_ dress robes.

"Padma!" Despite the call of her name, Padma didn't move an inch from her desk. Her bewitched spectacles showed the intricate curves of the Runes on the page, making them appear as though they were floating before her eyes. Her entire office was filled to the brim with various parchments flying about—sorting themselves into stacks, pinning themselves to walls, and a few in the process of being written on—and a large tome sat in front of her.

Gemma Jones was her colleague, though her specialty had been in Welsh and Romanic Runes rather than the eastern ones Padma preferred. They often had to work together in the Department of Mysteries, using their expertise to decipher even the most weathered and antediluvian of glyphs. Despite Gemma being five years her senior, Padma found her to be the most agreeable friend since she was knowledgeable, respectable, and amiable. The older witch had her hair tied back in a tangled, brown bun and her outfits were always completed with a pair of spectacles—bewitched both for her work and for her poor eyesight.

"Did you get the memo? They've moved the meeting to this afternoon," Gemma asked as she adjusted her glasses, carefully avoiding the numerous papers fluttering around her generous frame. Padma stilled, looking up from her work and glancing around her office—looking for a bright blue color, the department head's stationery. It was difficult to find the note among the numerous fluttering parchments that were flying around her office. Padma bit her lip and the sound of rustling paper became quite clamorous until she finally spied the document between the stacks on her bookshelf. The paper immediately flew to its mistress's hands, and Padma scanned the flowery script before looking up at her friend.

"It says we're meeting him this Thursday." Padma frowned, obviously confused.

Gemma shook her head. "The department head's been a bit . . . _addled_ because the budget's due in under a fortnight. He's decided that you're to be the one to meet the liaison from Gringotts to investigate the artefact. Apparently, they think it's more Asian in nature."

"Liaison?" Padma muttered as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Unlike her sister who had graduated from braids to a more mature updo, Padma still tightly wove her hair into the familiar design, claiming that it kept her hair out of her face just the way she liked it.

"You know," Gemma fidgeted as a slight pinkish hue appeared on the tips of her ears. "Bill Weasley."

"Gemma!" Padma nearly shouted, "He's happily married with kids!"

Gemma rolled her eyes. "Oh _hush_. He's still quite fit for a married man."

Gemma may have been a rather respectable witch but she was prone to crushes; she often complained that her bitter Aunt Gilda had cursed the women in her family and _that_ was the reason why she had never had a steady boyfriend for more than a few months. It was the only thing about her coworker that drove Padma up the wall on occasion.

Padma scowled. "Looks like I'm leaving. And I had promised Parv that we'd go out to lunch too." She waved her wand wordlessly and streams of parchment and books began to flow into her blue leather satchel. She had personally charmed the satchel which had been gifted as a Christmas present from her sister. The leather had been dyed navy-blue—her sister had told her it was a rather popular choice of material for Muggles, though wizards tended to prefer dragonhide—adorned with bronze letters that spelled her name. The color scheme reminded her of more innocent times: her first year at Hogwarts and coincidentally, her first year away from her twin. It was the first time they had ever been apart for more than a few hours. Padma snatched up the cross-body bag before checking over her office, briefly considering whether she should bring another set of books—Runes were different depending on their geographic origin, knowing the original location of the artefact usually did wonders for its translation—and ultimately decided against it. She could always come back to her office, after all.

Using the Floo, Padma soon found herself in Diagon Alley before quickly scrawling out a memo on her ivory stationery. She watched the stationery airplane zoom towards Parvati's shop, informing her twin that she wouldn't be able to keep their lunch date. Padma walked briskly towards the white columned building and through the bronze doors of Gringotts. After flashing her Ministry badge before slipping it back into a pocket within her robes, she was almost immediately taken to a goblin by the name of Fugnok.

"Greetings, Fugnok. All is well I presume?" Padma smiled after hearing his greeting, she rather liked the wizened old goblin since he reminded her of her grandfather back in India. Both had an old-world charm about them and a similar businesslike, no-nonsense attitude that she could appreciate. She suspected that the goblin liked her as well—not nearly as much as he did Curse-Breaker Bill Weasley, of course—but her general knowledge of Gobbledegook usually made her the preferred Ministry contact even surpassing the buffoons they often sent from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

The goblin gestured her towards the cart. "The artefact in question was discovered early this morning; the Ministry has declared that it takes precedence." Her stomach did a few flips as the other goblin—Lomrig, she believed was his name—took them on a steep path in the rickety cart. The cart zoomed down kilometers and kilometers of passageways, taking them further and further underground. They arrived before the vault within fifteen minutes; it was quite possibly the longest ride she had ever experienced in Gringotts. Padma was pleased that it took even less time for her to get her bearings. Waiting before the entrance was a red-haired and heavily-scarred man who had a fang adorning one of his ears—the famous Bill Weasley.

"Padma it's good to see you. How are you?" He shook her hand while casting a wolfish smile. They had worked together before—few wizards or witches ever went far in the study of Ancient Runes—and her expertise in the Asiatic languages was almost unmatched. Bill's job involved breaking any curses that could still be lingering on an object, even after centuries of disuse. Reading the Runes on an artefact could often be the deciding factor in saving a Curse-Breaker's life as well as discovering its purpose.

"Busy as usual. How are Victoire and Fleur and Dominique?" She answered; Bill was quite the family man despite his adventurous occupation. She had listened to him gush about his daughters often enough to feel like she knew them personally.

"Oh, Fleur's pregnant—practically glowing. Victoire and Dominique are very excited about being older sisters. They're convinced that they'll find the baby being carried in by fairies in a few months." Padma smiled as she listened but it sent a small ache in her chest as she wondered whether she'd ever be bragging about her own progeny in the future. Dismissing the snide thought, she focused her attention on Bill again.

"It was found in one of the older vaults, we suspect that it may have been built around the 1300s. It was supposedly brought in from India by some unknowing Muggles until the Ministry discovered and confiscated the item. They've sealed it up ever since." Padma nodded as she had her enchanted quill jot down some notes—the time period could be helpful.

"Do we have any further knowledge on the artefact? What is its purpose?" Padma peered at the large "7" that adorned the huge vault as she further questioned the Curse-Breaker. Squinting in the low light, Padma took the time to admire the fact that this was the furthest underground she had ever been. _Blimey_ , she had no idea that there were still vaults numbered in the single digits.

Bill shrugged. "Haven't got a clue really. None of the records say; the Ministry hasn’t always been as meticulous with its findings. The Department of International Magical Cooperation passed a new regulation—they’re sending it straight back to India after declaring it safe for transport. Declared a piece of Magical History or something."

"When was it brought into the vault?" Padma continued, trying to gain any little advantage that she could. She hated going into a project blind; sure it was exciting, but exciting and magic often didn't go well together. Her work as an Unspeakable was very dependent on information, but this assignment was much less . . . _exclusive_ than the others. As a translator, she found herself needed widely throughout different areas of the Ministry but this particular case was quite ordinary if she had been loaned merely to package and mail something back.

Bill briefly looked over some parchments. "Says it was brought to London around 1946 or early 1947 by the Muggles. The Ministry didn't get a hold on it until the 1970s. It's been under lock and key ever since."

"I wonder why it took so long to be found," Padma murmured, frowning.

“The Ministry’s a bit more fastidious about checking Gringotts records now—anything with the slightest chance of being Dark is being processed and checked thoroughly.”

“And they’ve got you on clean up duty, I see.”

Bill gave her a wry grin as Lomrig and Fugnok started to open the massive vault. Padma and Bill both watched as the goblins wove their respective magic until the door seemingly vanished from sight.

After the vault was opened, Padma stared into the dark abyss before taking her wand in hand and muttering _Lumos Maxima_. Bill stood slightly in front of her, his own wand adorned with light as the goblins followed behind with lanterns. The vault was quickly filled with a warm yellow glow as light began to push the darkness back. Within the center of the impossibly massive vault was an elaborate black arch adorned with intricate carvings - close to Sanskrit in nature, Padma believed—surrounding the arch was a purple shield, likely put in place to prevent accidental tampering or cursing. In the center of the arch were three gems—gems that she recognized from the stories her mother used to tell her.

" _Kali’s wrath,_ " Padma murmured as she gazed at the structure.

"You recognize it?" Bill asked, his wand still clutched in his hand as his brow furrowed.

"It's—it's something that I've only heard in fairy tales. I thought my mother was joking when she told my sister and me. I'm not so sure about this arch but those gems, they're legendary." Padma's fingers went to stroke the stone around her own neck. Her mother had just given her a new one a few months ago, replacing the one she had worn during her time at Hogwarts.

She still remembered the identical heart-shaped gold necklaces that her father had given her and Parvati just before getting their Hogwarts's letters. Each had the letter "P" and Padma remembered changing hers blue to match her House colors. On their twenty-fifth birthday, their mother had given them new necklaces. Parvati had been given a Moonstone—to open her heart (in light of Lavender’s death and in hopes that she would settle down and give them a few grandchildren)—while Padma's had been a brilliant blue sapphire.

Her mother had jokingly stated that the blue sapphire was the _Syamantak Mani_ —the famed jewel of heaven that had once adorned the necklace of the Sun god, Surya. This, of course, was not true. The real jewel had been a ruby, not a blue sapphire. Muggles had been the one to spread the rumor of the blue sapphire — only because they had been unable to find the real _Syamantak Mani_. She had been told that the necklace had been passed down her mother's family and given to the eldest daughter.

"Well, you know what they say about fairy tales." Padma gave him a derisive look as Bill chuckled quietly.

"There were four jewels of heaven: the _Kaustabha Mani_ , the _Chinta Mani_ , the _Rudra Mani_ and the _Syamantak Mani_. When these four are brought together, it was said it was possible to bring heaven to its knees," Padma droned from memory, trying to rack her brain for more information.

"But I only see three," Bill said as he inspected the arch. True to Bill’s words, the only gems visible were a milky-white opal, an orange-yellow imperial topaz and a cloudy blue moonstone.

Padma shook her head. "There's a slot for the additional jewel, it looks like whoever stole the arch didn't know it was missing something. Lucky for us, it means that the arch is probably useless. The Runes wouldn't be able to function properly without the correct energy source and the inclusion of the right jewels is crucial." She pointed at the empty slot, feeling certain that she was correct. It made more sense now why the Ministry hadn’t found the artefact until decades later and was probably deemed worthless enough to give back to India.

Bill nodded as he lifted his wand in the air. "Alright. Stand back, I'm dissolving the barrier. Lomrig and I will go through the standard procedure. According to the vault description, the barrier isn't absorbing curses. It's merely absorbing the residual magical signature and preventing it from corrupting the surrounding vaults. It'll be easier to decipher the Runes without it in the way."

Padma made her way to the doorway with Fugnok following at her side. Fugnok soon resurrected a new barrier to prevent the magical backlash from harming them as Padma watched Bill give the signal. Both wizard and goblin began to cast spells, though the goblin's method was different from anything Padma had ever seen before. The purple barrier began to dissipate slowly and Padma could feel the ripples of residual magic flow through the air.

The magic itself felt ancient—that was to be expected, of course — but Padma wasn't expecting the melancholy that accompanied it. It was almost as though the artefact was crying out—whether it was in pain or grief, Padma was hesitant to find out.

After the barrier was gone and Bill declared it safe enough to get closer, Padma quickly took out some heavy-set volumes as well as her enchanted glasses. Stowing her wand safely away in her satchel, Padma immediately went to work. Loose parchment rustled like tree leaves in the breeze as she began translating and copying the Runes into her notes. Bill, who had some experience in eastern Runes from his work in Egypt, also began to help copy them down for later translation. The goblins merely stood at a distance, watching the pair in silence. Padma had to look over her first line of translation almost three times before realizing what she had in front of her.

The Runes themselves were not complicated, they were simple looking by all accounts but their meaning was something else entirely. It was well known in the Wizarding World that a single Rune could be used for a complex enchantment that couldn't be achieved through hundreds of spoken Charms and wand movements. It was this flexibility that drew Padma to the craft in the first place; there were just so many possibilities to create and her Ravenclaw curiosity was practically swooning at the piece in front of her.

"Any luck?" She heard Bill ask.

"I've definitely seen this before but there's something," Padma began pacing around the expansive room, trying to figure out the problem set before her. "There's just something off about the arch. The magic that's coming off the artefact is well within my expectations for its function but—"

"Your expectations?" Bill quickly interjected, "Hold on. You know what this thing does?"

Padma briefly turned her head towards the Curse-Breaker and nodded. "This Rune, _Atman_ , means soul." Padma then pointed to another Rune that she had her enchanted quill elegantly copy for her. "And this Rune, _Kala_ , has multiple meanings—it could mean time, darkness, fate or even death."

Bill's confused look begged elaboration.

Padma struggled with the wording, hoping to keep it from sounding as absurd as she thought it was. "I think that whoever created this archway was concerned with Soul bonds. This arch is supposed to form a portal of some kind—a portal that would take you to your Soul bond or at least in theory."

Soul bonds were mysterious and powerful things in the magical world. They were similar to blood rituals in that little was known about them. Soul bonds were volatile things. Merging your magic with someone else had the potential for great power—it not only lent immense magical reserves but the focus to wield them properly.

Unfortunately, this power did not come easily. It was much more likely that you would never meet your Match—in fact, it was much more likely that your Match was long dead before you even entered the world. To meet one's Match was considered to be very, very fortunate—a true, once-in-a-millennia encounter. It is said that when one meets the other half—your Match, as wizards liked to call it—the Soul mark would appear on your skin _only_ for you and your Match to see. According to some texts, it was this way that wizards were able to confirm that this was indeed a Soul bond and not merely a Blood bond (which were much more artificial and forcibly made).

Soul bonds were much more common in magical creatures that took only one mate—such as goblins—or in some antiquated magical communities (like some villages in her native India and others where the ancient rites were practiced more often). Every creature was given a soul— _sometimes_ this soul wielded magic—and usually this didn't have any untoward effects. People could live their lives quite happily even if they never found the other half of their soul. But should the two halves ever meet only then to be separated—the entire world was at their magical mercy.

Her mother had told her and Parvati stories about Soul bonds. She could remember her sister swooning over how "romantic" the idea but Padma could only shudder. Just because two people were Matched did not necessarily mean that they instantly loved each other, in all senses, it merely meant they were _stuck_ with each other. Padma had cringed at the prospect, finding out that you were stuck with someone you barely knew for all eternity didn't appeal to her one bit. It had frightened her as a little girl and it still frightened her now.

Bill whistled appreciatively; Soul bonds were powerful things, not necessarily Dark but not exactly Light either. They were more Primal or Elemental, something his corner of the Wizarding World didn’t usually experience. He was a bit more familiar with them considering his work in Egypt but even there it had been rare.

"Is it too dangerous to pack up?" He asked, gazing at the archway with a newfound air of caution.

Padma shrugged. "I need more time to translate the rest of these Runes. If I find out exactly what ritual it was used for, it'll probably be better." She turned back to her notes as her brow furrowed. "While I'm pretty sure that the archway is totally useless without that fourth stone, it's the fact that it's still giving out residual magic that's quite concerning."

"It's probably the main reason why the barrier was resurrected, residual magic is usually never a good thing and it's best to keep it contained." Padma nodded in agreement. Artefacts often absorbed the magic that frequently left the bodies of wizards and witches—supercharging them to the point where it could be dangerous. It was especially so in the case of older artefacts which were designed to be sensitive to the slightest drop of magic.

The artefact wasn't overtly dangerous—it wouldn't have survived out in the Muggle world so long if it had been—and the Ministry would have put priority on it otherwise. Then again, the Ministry hadn't been exactly competent in the last few decades especially if Fudge's performance was considered the norm. Thicknesse, of course, had been sacked and replaced by Kingsley Shacklebolt—a change that led to revolutionize the other departments of the Ministry of Magic. This could possibly explain why they were sending Padma to clean up these "loose" ends rather than keep her focused on her duty as an Unspeakable.

"Is it safe if I inspect a little closer? I've always been a bit . . . hands-on in my research," Padma asked aloud as she marveled over the carvings. They were hand-carved and not done by magic. A strange detail indeed since wizards were notoriously lazy for tasks that did not involve magic.

"It should be fine. This item is labeled as Non-dangerous and I've done more than the usual standard counter-curse just to be sure." Padma smiled in glee as Bill gave his assent. She began to run her fingers along the carvings, marveling at what she was seeing. There was a complex amalgamation of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes that made her head spin. The numbers seemed to be referring to dates—or at least, that's what she thought - there was another set of calculations specifically to the Time Displacement. Padma's forehead was furrowed in concentration, shifting up onto her toes to inspect the Runes more carefully. She felt an odd burning sensation near the base of her throat. When she glanced downwards all she could see was a bright, piercing light that blinded her eyes.

"Padma!"

The shouts in English and Gobbledegook startled her, shifting her off-balance and causing her to fall forward through the gate of the arch with a light hum registering in her ear drums.

  



	2. The Witch in His Bed

Tom Riddle lied on his bed while his bones steeped in anger. This was the last summer he would be forced to endure this hellhole, he swore it to himself. The Muggle war was still in full force and yet again his request to stay at Hogwarts had been denied—Dumbledore’s doing he was sure of it. The orphanage was somehow even shabbier than before with rations diminishing the already paltry foodstuffs provided. Soldiers, after all, needed food far more than orphans. The only boon had been that most of his old tormentors and pests were long gone—either lying about their age to enlist or choosing to do something better than wasting away _here_.

He closed his eyes, attempting to allow himself to rest for just a moment. The orphanage was quieter than he had ever remembered and it unsettled him greatly. It was the kind of quiet that preceded death and the entire city suffered from it. He felt exposed and vulnerable here in a place where he wasn’t allowed to use magic. Tom had deep reservations about the underage magic law,  especially considering how deeply it inconvenienced him in particular. Exceptions should be made for _exceptional_ wizards. Arrogant purebloods had little inkling about how physically devastating the war was.

All summer he had been forced to wait and wonder. What if an air raid occurred? What if it happened while he slept, unable to summon his magic in time to protect himself? What could he even do to protect himself if an entire building collapsed around him? Here he was, likely the greatest wizard in a generation facing his potential end due to some idiotic _Muggles_.

 

Tom Riddle had found it rather difficult to sleep this particular summer.

****

He supposed he could have asked some of his acquaintances but he was far too savvy to know that openly admitting weakness was a social faux pas in Slytherin house. Letting his housemates know just how deeply this Muggle war was affecting him would only bring more attention to his less-than-exceptional background. It would also undoubtedly set back the very connections he was trying to cultivate. Tom was learning that persuasion was a fickle though effective mistress and these secondary Purebloods (in both magic and inheritance) were very, very capricious. All too eager to tie their broomstick to the brightest star in the sky. For Tom to gain the power he desired he could not look weak, even in the face of destruction.

He tried to close his eyes once more but his magic remained agitated. Something was about to happen, his magic could sense it. His body was rigid as he lied still, waiting. All was quiet until Tom heard a faint ringing in his ears—he bolted upright wondering if he was hearing a far-off siren miles away. He stood, quickly, refusing to be caught flat on his back. The noise only became louder and louder—he now realized that it wasn’t a siren, after all, but rather a humming noise that was quickly gaining strength. He glanced out the small window of his room but found nothing unusual occurring out on the street. There were still people milling about as it was just a few hours past noon.

The humming only got louder. His jaw clenched as he placed his wand in his hand; its effect was immediate, the soothing weight in his hand and the warmth of his magic mollified him. He was powerful — he was magic! — _nothing could harm him._

He paced the room as his inner tension rose. It was as if at any moment his magic was ready to snap. Precognition was never a skill he thought he possessed but the way his instincts screamed made him wary. Something was going to happen.

A light flashed suddenly, blinding Tom. His magic immediately lurched as though struck while his mind raced for possible counter-curses. He felt clumsy and slow since he had never expected magic to occur _here_ of all places. Just as quickly the light faded into the bland gray of Wool’s. His vision cleared while his heart was still pounding within his chest.

At first glance, there was nothing noticeably different about the Spartan room he had reluctantly occupied for most of his life. The same beige-gray walls, the shabby dresser by the corner and his second-hand trunk. But on his bed—the same standard cot issued by the orphanage for all its wards—was a girl wearing navy blue witch’s robes. The robes were baggy and ill-fitting. She was still, almost unnaturally so until Tom noticed the slight rise and fall of her chest under the heavy cloth.

There was blood on her face—dark and black like someone had smeared tar under her nose and over her lips and cheeks. His wand hand twitched as he assessed this intruder in his bed. Keeping his eyes trained on her, he dared to step closer.

She looked peaceful lying there covered in blood. His magic was oddly calm about this new addition to his room, reacting as though she was just another piece of furniture rather than a living, breathing stranger.

He took another step, silently shifting through a dozen curses in his mind—each one more deadly and illegal than the last.

Tom felt the strangest urge to Scourgify the blood off her face so that he might get a better look at her features. He had never seen her before and he was nearly certain of it. He had difficulty forgetting faces—the only one he had managed to forget was his own mother’s. Not that he wanted to remember the face of some _Muggle_ anyway. All others though, he always remembered. His confidence in his memory was only second to his faith in his magic.

Even if he wanted to clean the blood of her face using magic, he wouldn’t be able to. His lips curled in displeasure. The Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic was like a maggot under his skin—highly irritating and in desperate need of removal. Alas, he was only fifteen and going into his fifth year. He’d need to wait at least two more years before risking flagrant uses of magic in an area populated by so many Muggles. Learning that his privileged Pureblood housemates would never have any trouble practicing their own magic in their centuries-old manors had made him grind his teeth. Especially since those same manors were likely also warded to the teeth against Muggles, including their bombs.

The vein in his neck throbbed as he clenched his jaw painfully tight. Making up his mind, Tom turned to the door. He needed to make sure he had never seen her before and that meant seeing her face without the blood. A part of him was wary to turn his back on the intruder but she hadn’t so much as twitched and he was quite certain that he could strike first if the need arose.

He walked briskly, knowing how to avoid the children in the halls (though most if not all knew to avoid _him_ by now). He soon carried a rag as well as a basinful of water into his room without being seen. He had always clung to the shadows as a boy and now he wore them like a familiar piece of clothing.

Much to his confused relief, she was still lying on his bed as though he had never left. Not that anyone would dare ever enter his room except for Mrs. Cole. Only the matron ever bothered to deal with him directly even if the Muggle pursed her lips every time she had to speak to him.

Carefully, Tom drew closer to the bed as he tried to reason a way for him to wipe off the blood without leaving himself open to attack. He could always wake her himself and demand to know why she ended up in his room of all places.

Even with this in mind, Tom found himself wringing the cloth quietly before approaching her. His movements were slow and methodical. The rag quickly became dark with blood as it revealed smooth, unmarred brown skin to his eyes. Her flesh was warm though she didn’t react to the damp cloth. Her features were completely unfamiliar to him—making it highly unlikely that she was a student at Hogwarts. Tom had made it a point to know everyone worth knowing, filtering prospective connections with a very fine sieve. It was especially curious considering that she appeared to be the same age as him.

The longer she remained still the uneasier he grew. His mind rifled through all the possible curses that could leave someone in a catatonic state. He doubted that this was an ordinary sleeping spell. He wasn’t a healer, however, so his theories were little more than just speculation at this point. This deficiency in his knowledge irked him. It had always felt to Tom that he was playing an enormous game of catch-up though it had relieved him to discover how truly mediocre most wizards were. Nonetheless, he felt as though he was constantly trying to step outside the shadow cast by wizards far more experienced and knowledged and privileged than himself.

As he tossed the rag into the basin, he noticed a glint of gold from beneath the robes. It came from a gold chain that he could see around her neck. Thin and extremely delicate though it had still caught the light even inside his dim and dreary room. Using the end of his wand, he carefully and gently lifted the chain from inside her robes until it revealed an ice-blue sapphire.

The color of the gem was curious as he had never seen anything like it before—it seemed to almost glow with unusual magic. Oddly, it didn’t feel malicious in intent and as though hypnotized by its shine, his fingers reached out to the stroke the stone’s smooth surface. Jolting in surprise, Tom took several steps back as he berated himself for his idiocy. He had read about cursed objects before— _what in the bloody hell was he doing touching one?_ Still, as several moments passed and nothing untoward had happened. He stepped closer again, staring at the jewel that lied so innocently on top of the witch’s robes.

He suspected that the witch had likely come from wealth—those robes were fine quality and the necklace whispered of ancient magic. That was, of course, if she hadn’t merely stolen those items. Considering how ill-fitting the robes were, it was not completely unlikely. Tom wasn’t nearly naïve to believe that she had come into his room _completely_ by honest means.

There were several annoying disadvantageous facts when it came to being an orphan but the lack of funds was particularly irritating. Though he had learned tricks to broaden his meager means, watching his classmates throw around their unearned wealth so carelessly had jaded him. Their wealth was a form of power but it was a weak one. Especially considering how some of the richest of his class were also the most _useless_ at magic.

His fingers reached out to stroke the edges of the stone again as he considered the situation. Tom noticed that the chain was especially smooth to the touch almost as though the interlocking links were actually moving. Looking at them more carefully, they almost appeared to move like miniature snakes—twisting and coiling into one long strand. Undoubtedly luxurious, Tom’s mind was already formulating ways to remove the necklace from her neck without the witch ever noticing.

His index finger and thumb began to rub the chain, admiring its craftsmanship until his fingers actually brushed the side of her neck.

Usually, between two people this casual brush of skin was nothing extraordinary to note but between Tom and this supposed witch—it was a very, very fortunate encounter indeed.

****

 

 

 

 

 

Tom’s magic literally sparked from his fingers as a crackle resounded throughout the small, drab room. Gooseflesh rose on his skin as his entire body practically stood rigid at attention. His magic was . . . _delighted_? Confusion and concern and curiosity warred in his mind before concern ultimately won out. Tom shuffled backward as though he had been violently burned though he felt no pain just . . . complete?

It was unsettling but at the same time invigorating—he felt alive. His magic practically vibrating with potential, nearly intoxicated with the sudden influx of new magic. Tom jolted, forcing his magic back from what he saw as an inherently malicious force. For a moment there he had felt powerful, yes, but something had fundamentally _changed_ about his magic. The girl on his bed flinched as he moved further away, her eyelashes fluttering as though she struggled to wake under her own power. Spellbound, he watched her face. Her eyelids lifted and it was though he was watching the sun break through the clouds—her golden-brown irises soft and unfocused on his own blue ones. She blinked slowly, as though gently removing the sleep from her sight. His breath caught as she abruptly rose to sit on his bed, his magic still and waiting.

“ _Teleportation_ ?” Her voice was silk. “ _Unexpected but I suppose with the correct Arithmanic scheme. . .”_ Her words were odd just by their meaning alone but what struck Tom into shocked silence was her fluent Parseltongue.

“ _Speaker?_ ” He asked abruptly in a hiss, for this had changed everything. He had never met a human Speaker before. Snakes had always been rather interesting company but at the end of the day, their own knowledge of magic was decidedly limited. Snakes could not cast their own magic, after all. Suddenly the strange witch in his bed seemed like a unforeseen boon.

“ _Speaker?_ ” She repeated as she swung her legs over the cot as if to stand up. She sounded absent-minded as she continued, “ _I don’t think that was quite the right translation for the Rune I saw but then again it appeared to be proto-Sanskrit based in. . ._ ” Her brow suddenly furrowed in annoyance. “Where are my notes?”

“You’re speaking Parseltongue,” Tom stated plainly. The daft witch seemed to have lost her own wits about her since she was switching between languages without even knowing it. His irritation was tempered by his curiosity.

“Parseltongue?” She blinked as she abruptly stood up. The sudden motion seemed too much for the witch, however, as she fell back onto the cot nearly as fast. She clutched her head in pain as she muttered under her breath, “Parseltongue! That’s it! Oh, where are my books?”

Tom watched with disdain and apprehension as blood began to trickle down from her nose. Of course, the first _human_ Speaker he would come across would be a mad-woman. He was already feeling vexed by her presence and he had scarcely said four words to the witch.

“If you must bleed, I’d rather you didn’t do so on my bed,” Tom chided curtly. It took a great deal of effort not to show the sneer on his face, holding onto his public facade outside of Hogwarts felt strange.

“Bleed?” Her left hand rose to her face as if just now realizing the blood flowing from her nose. It was odd how that irked him—her blatant disregard for her own health was unsettling. He reasoned it was because he did not want to deal with a _dead_ witch in his room—he very doubted that anyone not even _Slughorn_ would be willing to look the other way in that case.

She glanced down at her robes, frowning. Her fingers clutched the stone dangling from her neck and she eyed it carefully. “Parivartana.”

Tom hid a frown. She hadn’t been speaking Parseltongue since he didn’t understand her and he absolutely _loathed_ not knowing things. He fixed his grasp on his wand which had been deceivingly relaxed.

“Curiouser and curiouser. Well, I best head back to Diagon Alley—I suppose Curse-Breaker Weasley and the others received quite a shock when I disappeared.” He vigilantly watched as she rummaged through her navy blue robes. “And, of course, my wand is missing too.” She sighed before looking at him directly. “I’m sorry to impose any further but do your parents have a Floo I could use?”

The question didn’t sting as it might have once when he was younger but that was a long time ago and Tom was no longer that weak little child. “It’s a Muggle dwelling, I’m afraid the nearest Floo is likely in the next town over.”

The witch nodded, but didn’t comment on the way Tom had sidestepped part of her question. “Could you manage to spare me some ink and parchment, then? I’ll need to inform my department of what’s happened.”

Tom was rather curious as to how she expected to accomplish that without a wand or an owl but ultimately his desire to know more about the witch’s origins won out. “Department?”

“Oh yes.” She watched as he retrieved a scrap of parchment and a quill from his dresser. Oddly he was struck by the echo of a memory. The only other Magical being to ever visit him at Wool’s was Dumbledore and that particular meeting had gone quite differently. “I’m an Unspeakable.”

Tom knew very little about Unspeakables besides the fact that they all worked in the Department of Mysteries. Nott had described it as a place where old Ravenclaws went to die—experimenting on the most boring topics in Magic’s history. Considering how his other Purebloods compatriots had quickly agreed, Tom had given it little thought but _that_ had clearly been a mistake. One that he would need to correct post-haste. The witch was quite young for an Unspeakable, judging how she looked scarcely older than himself; it made him wonder.

She handled the quill expertly as she scrawled something almost too fast for his eyes to see before quickly folding the parchment into a crude-looking bird. She rubbed the quill nib into the wet blood on her left hand before writing what he could only infer were Runes. Tom was also deeply reconsidering his decision to take Divination instead of Ancient Runes especially since he hadn’t even known that Runes had such _practical_ applications. He abhorred to admit it but his choice in electives had been driven more by fancy than by practicality. Tom had always believed that he had some semblance of ability in divination considering how easily he seemed to read and manipulate lesser minds. Unfortunately, he had found out that was more due to his natural talents in Legilimency than any Seer ability.

The Runes on the parchment flashed gold before staying a jet-black darker than the ink he had given her. She cradled the parchment bird in her hands before going over to the small window in his room. Nudging it open, she blew onto her outstretched palms and the bird took flight, disappearing from view.

“What’s your name?” Tom asked, feigning a nonchalance that was only convincing because of his superior acting skills. This witch’s casual use of blood Runes was more enough to convince him that she could be a powerful asset. Her knowledge was valuable enough to envy a hundred times over.

“Padma, Padma Patil.” She smiled as she wiped the remaining blood off her left hand using the rag left in the basin. “Apologies for barging in like this. And you are....?”

Tom hesitated before quickly smoothing it over. “Charmed. I’m—” He was interrupted by a loud knock on the open window where a Ministry owl carried a plain beige envelope.

“Well that was certainly quick,” Padma noted with astonishment. “Normally everyone just ignores my memos.”

The envelope detached itself from the owl’s leg as it levitated in the air. The flap began to move animatedly as words were spoken in a thin, high-pitched voice:

_Dear Mr. Riddle,_

_We have received intelligence that Unknown Magicks were performed at twenty-six minutes past three this afternoon in a Muggle-inhabited area. Please be advised that this serves as your first and last warning._ _Further use of magic will result in immediate expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_—Orla Beirne, Office of the Improper Use of Magic, M.o.M._

“Unknown Magicks?” Tom echoed, feeling numb. While the threat of expulsion had always loomed over his head with Dumbledore as deputy headmaster, Tom had never faced any consequences for anything considering how deep he had Slughorn and the others in his pocket. Certainly, he had entertained the possibility _—_ the fantasy of casting some highly immoral curses at Wool’s but he wasn’t nearly enough of a buffoon to actually get _caught_.

Almost immediately after the owl took flight once more, a crow soon perched on the windowsill. The silver brace on its leg caught the light as another envelope detached itself from its carrier. Pale silver in color, the envelope rippled and shimmered in the light before reciting its message (another woman’s voice again but deeper than the last):

_Dear Mr. Riddle,_

_Please disregard the previous letter as the appropriate authorities have been dispatched. Please stand back. Your cooperation is appreciated._

_—Unspeakable Augusta Urey, Department of Mysteries, M.o.M._

Quicker than a thought, two more wizards appeared in his room. The older wizard, judging by the patchy brown hair and receding hairline, had a stern frown upon his face as he stared at Tom. “What in Merlin’s name is going on in here? The Office of the Improper Use of Magic has flooded my desk with memos and dung alike—falling over themselves about the magical readings coming from this very room.”

“Oh you know how Orla gets, Croaker,” the witch standing next to him spoke. Her voice matched the one from the second letter addressed to Tom. She was dressed in a warm orange color, her robes appeared silken on her body as they rippled on their own. She was young, definitely younger than her colleague judging by her unlined dark skin and the way her mouth was drawn in mirth. “Always eager that one.”

Croaker grumbled as he gave Tom and Padma a look over—Tom had noticed how Padma had gone unnaturally silent in the face of the two new visitors. Tom opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the ministry witch. “Mr. Riddle, a soon-to-be fifth year at Hogwarts ( _better study for those O.W.L.s!_ ), there have been reports of temporal disruptions since thirteen past three today, Friday, July 17th.” The witch read off a scroll of parchment she had retrieved from her dragonhide satchel—likely the product of an unlucky Welsh Green. “As representatives of the Department of Mysteries, Unspeakable Croaker and myself have come to investigate.”

“Thank you, Unspeakable Urey,” Croaker intoned.

“Temporal disruptions?” Tom asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Not to mention that a bird made of parchment made it through the wards that have protected and guarded the Department of Mysteries for centuries.” Croaker looked down his nose at both Tom and Padma. “And just who are we to thank for this busy afternoon, hm?”

Padma took a deep steadying breath, drawing the attention of the officials. She appeared as though she was mentally fortifying herself for the interrogation that was looming on the horizon. “Before I answer any of your questions, Unspeakables, I must know the year.”

Tom blinked rapidly. Temporal disruptions coupled with her strange robes as well as her not knowing the year?

“1942,” Croaker responded, his eyes never leaving Padma’s face. “How long lost are you?”

She swallowed and Tom could see her nerves tremble from the action. “Over sixty years, sir.” Padma shifted, before slowly removing a bronze badge from her robes. With trepidation, she continued, “Unspeakable Patil requesting asylum and aid under Article C Subsection 99.”

“A time traveler?” Urey whispered in awe, excitement dawning on her face. Her mouth was drawn into a wide, bright smile. “We haven’t had one since—since Mintumble herself!”

“Calm yourself, Urey,” Croaker chided. “Unspeakable Patil, your request is granted conditionally—you must return to the D.o.M. under my custody immediately.”

She nodded, unsurprised by Croaker’s request. Tom could see that she was wary though, judging how stiffly she stood. Urey, however, clapped her hands together which momentarily startled Tom. “Oh and that paper bird you made was just brilliant! So much better than dealing with owl droppings all the time. Is that what we have in the future?”

Croaker interrupted before Padma could answer. “Have you left this room or had any contact with anyone besides Mr. Riddle?”

Padma’s brow furrowed. “Not that I am aware of.”

Croaker sighed as he rubbed his face. “At least there’s some daisies in the dragon dung here. Mintumble just wandered around the entire bloody place.” Croaker turned to his colleague. “Check all items for contamination and inform the Office of Improper Use of Magic that this falls under our purview. If Orla kicks up a fuss, send all of her letters straight into the fireplace until further notice.”

“Right-o, Boss.” Urey responded cheekily with a mock salute. She then jerked her head in Tom’s direction. “What about this one? Likely need to inform Hogwarts considering his ward status.”

“Inform Dumbledore,” Croaker grumbled, clearing wanting nothing more to do with Tom. “Dippet’s still in South America if I remember correctly and Slughorn couldn’t keep a secret like this to himself.”

Urey snorted in agreement. “Likely’ll try to use Patil to discover next use of dragon blood.”

Tom couldn’t help but privately agree about Slughorn—any Slytherin worth their scales would be tempted by the knowledge residing inside of Padma’s head. Even his mind was reeling with possibilities. He was, however, greatly displeased that this would be brought to Dumbledore’s attention.

“Mr. Riddle, please stay under the supervision of Unspeakable Urey. We’ll need to check you for any temporal corruption after decontaminating this room. Unspeakable Patil, come with me.” Croaker withdrew from his robes something Tom found especially odd for an Unspeakable to have on their person—a plain, silver fountainhead pen. He watched as the older wizard took out his wand from his sleeve and waved it over the pen, muttering the word _Portus_ under his breath.

Tom mentally stored that spell away for future use. Portkey creation was highly regulated and none of the books he had found in Hogwarts had even mentioned the proper incantation let along the wand movements for creating one. It would undoubtedly be useful considering as he was too young to Apparate legally. Tom wondered if the creation of portkeys was also carefully monitored. Though perhaps the Department of Mysteries operated outside the general laws that governed the wizarding populace. Either way, becoming an Unspeakable was sounding increasingly lucrative.

“Time?” Croaker asked gruffly.

Urey retrieved a platinum pocket watch from within her orange robes. “Forty-six past three. Twelve seconds.”

Croaker grunted in acknowledgment before waving Padma, or rather, Unspeakable Patil over to his side. Tom watched as she delicately placed a single finger on the pen. “Five,” Croaker muttered. “Four...three...two...”

The last thing Tom remembered was Croaker’s voice gently rasping “one” before the world collapsed around him.

 

 

 

 

 

****

 

****

 

 

 

 

 

 

Urey looked down at the two young wizards resting peacefully on two identical cots that had been pushed together. She chanced a glance at her older colleague whose face was drawn into a grimace. Croaker greatly and utterly _despised_ unexpected complications. A trait which was rather odd considering his high ranking in the Department of Mysteries—on a good day, they’d encounter several oddities before lunch.

“Looks like we’ll have to call in Lovegood on this one,” Urey spoke, finally breaking the silence. She knew full well that otherwise, Croaker would stew and brood as he always tended to.

“This is a time travel anomaly first and foremost, Urey.” His frown deepened and his tone resembling more of a child’s than a man past his fourth decade. Croaker even sniffed for good measure.

“Soul bonds _do_ fall under his purview, Croaker,” She reminded him gently. “You know how Lovegood makes a mention of it in nearly every memo. He’s likely been for something like this to fall into his lap for decades.”

“Don’t remind me,” Croaker grumbled. “His damn spotted owl leaves droppings on everything except the bloody memo every single time.”

“That parchment owl was brilliant.” Urey was long used to Croaker’s crotchetiness. She had been working with the wizard for over a decade now. The key was always to distract him from one of his tirades earlier than later. “And that mastery of Runes at such a young age? Do you think we start recruiting Hogwarts students before their N.E.W.T.s?”

“We don’t assign badges to just any buffoon who can wave a wand. There’s a very vigorous examination that prevents it.” Croaker was firm in his belief but Urey had her doubts. Unspeakable Patil looked awfully young for someone so skilled. It was odd to think that someone so young had managed to pass the initiation that all Unspeakables underwent. Patil must have been a rare talent even for the future. Croaker sighed, stepping back from the sleeping pair. “None of this sits well with me.”

“Your gut bothering you again, old man? I told you to lay off the extra rasher of bacon this morning.” Urey smirked but she didn’t feel the mirth of her statement. As excited as she had been, the complications were becoming increasingly more entangled.

Croaker harrumphed but didn’t take the bait. “We were lucky that my gut sensed there was something wrong otherwise the magical backlash from separating a newly bonded pair would have killed us and all those muggles on that street.”

Urey nodded solemnly; it had been extremely fortunate that Croaker had managed to knock the pen out of Unspeakable Patil’s hand when he did. Urey herself had barely managed to throw up her strongest shield charm in time.

The near-separation was enough to leave the room in shambles—the bed and the dresser had turned to ash from the magical backlash—and now another team of Unspeakables was clearing out the contents though Urey doubted they’d find anything useful in the debris. A team of Obliviators had also been sent out and with the Muggles so jumpy because of the war, she inferred it would be a very difficult task indeed. If that was the amount of destruction an attempted separation wielded, she had no desire to attempt a real one.

Croaker pursed his lips. “Inform Lovegood’s assistant, at least Birch still has her wits about her. We can’t send Unspeakable Patil home with the bond like this.”

“You can’t mean to break the bond!” Urey whispered in astonishment. She’d never known Croaker to be so cold, especially considering that it might as well mean death for the both of them.

“The longer she stays here the greater danger she is to the time stream,” Croaker stated with finality. “Like it or not, she’s here on stolen time.”

“What a load of dragon dung this’s become.” Urey shook her head before setting her eyes back on Croaker. Her large lips pursed in displeasure. “And Dumbledore’s requesting an audience.”

“Just as well, if we don’t get this sorted by September then Mr. Riddle will be unable to attend Hogwarts.” Urey thought Croaker spoke far too lightly about essentially expelling a student from Hogwarts for what could only be described as a divine act of magic out of his control. “Bloody Soul bonds—I’ll need to update the protocol. _Again_.”

Croaker left the room, leaving Urey to observe the two young ones. They slept peacefully, no doubt due to the Draught of Living Peace they had managed to dose them with after Stunning the both of them.

The day was getting more and more extraordinary with each passing moment. Urey just hoped that she’d be able to keep up.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom Riddle is still a creep who tries to steal things, unfortunately. 
> 
> One plot-point that has always annoyed me about HP Time Travel fics is how it's usually centered around the main character trying not to get caught. Or entire stories where their secret is never found out except for Dumbledore or another character. You mean to tell me that the Department of Mysteries which actually _studies_ time travel would never find out about illegal time travelers? Kay.
> 
> Reviews are treats for the soul :)


	3. She Wakes

Waking was a dizzying experience. Padma hadn’t had a headache like this since the last time she went on a pub crawl with Parvati and ate her weight in cheese toasties and chips. She felt nauseous and her entire body ached as though as she had attempted to climb a mountain without magic.

 

Padma opened her eyes slowly which was rather smart considering how bright the room was. The walls and ceiling were the same off-white color. The room wasn’t immediately recognizable though it was empty much like a jail cell or hospital room would be. No, she very much doubted she was in Azkaban considering how bright the room was. St Mungo’s was still a possibility though she hadn’t seen a room like this one before. Padma didn’t immediately panic until she turned her head and saw the boy from earlier lying in a cot pushed against her own.

 

_What in Kali’s name happened?_ She remembered holding onto the portkey Croaker had made, intent on going to the D.o.M for answers and solutions (though perhaps not necessarily in that order). After that was just blank, an unsettling hole in her memory both aggravating and discomforting. Now the senior Unspeakable, as well as his colleague Urey, were nowhere to be found.

 

“It wasn’t a dream,” she murmured. It couldn’t be seeing as she had living, breathing evidence lying just next to her. “I’m in the past.” It was surreal to think that just a few hours ago she had been decades in the future. Padma groaned, the thought more taxing than she was completely capable of at the moment. Arithmancy hadn’t been her best subject and just the thought of how twisted the time stream was due to her sudden arrival in the past was exacerbating her migraine.

 

Padma didn’t normally balk at the first hint of strangeness considering the fact that she was an Unspeakable but now seemed as good as a time as any to let her thoughts or, more truthfully, _fears_ run rampant.

 

Time travel…even death was always a possibility for Unspeakables in their line of work. Magic was wondrous, certainly, but never quite safe. Padma, however, had thought that she had experienced several lifetimes of danger and had been more than relieved to spend the rest of her days behind a desk. She had fought and _won_ a war for Kali’s sake. More adventure was not something she necessarily wanted or sought.

 

Why had she arrived here in 1942–over sixty years in the past? Perhaps her initial theory was completely wrong and the archway merely transported souls to a different time than their own. She mulled over that possibility while keeping her grief for her lost books and wand to a minimum. Padma tried to keep herself from despair since the situation wasn’t completely hopeless. She was confident that her colleagues would send her home–Saul Croaker was the foremost authority on Time Travel and had been for decades. He would send her home, she was sure of it.

 

She closed her eyes and sighed. Padma wondered if anyone had even noticed her disappearance considering how tangled and looped time magic could be. This wasn’t her area of expertise–she knew the basics as all Unspeakables did–but give her a weathered set of Runes to puzzle over any day. Maybe if it all went well she’d soon be sharing the tale with Parvati over a pot of chai.

 

Her eyes wandered over to the Riddle boy who was still sleeping deeply. Odd name, if she tried to think about it. The name itself seemed to cause some dissonance in her mind almost like hearing the hollow echo of a bell from far away–low and unsettling.

 

Something about it turned her stomach but she wasn’t completely sure why. She didn’t blame herself though, the pain in her skull made it difficult to keep track of all her wits. Why would she know that name? His features weren’t familiar–though conventionally attractive there wasn’t really anything interesting about them. She had the vaguest sense that he was likely related to someone she knew–likely a possible ancestor–but that wasn’t at all unusual considering how close some purebloods were. They were all cousins of cousins.

 

Padma let out a deep breath before gathering the strength to sit up. Her body protested against the action but she made sure her will was stronger. From this new vantage point, she realized that the room was rather small, only managing to fit in the two cots and few wooden chairs but it was otherwise completely void of color or other furnishings. It looked rather like a rush job to Padma’s eyes, as though whoever furnished the room only had enough time to transfigure objects rather than import actual furniture. There was something odd about the way the cot felt against her skin that clued her into its otherwise superficial transformation. Her fingertips idly brushed the fabric of the off-white cot only to confirm her suspicions. Someone had transfigured a desk to make this cot.

 

Her eyes glanced around the room. The most unsettling feature was the lack of windows–it made Padma’s skin prickle at the realization. A cell then if not St. Mungo’s. Even the Janus Thickey Ward had windows.

 

She took stock of her suddenly baggy robes which were very peculiar since Parvati had custom tailored these robes to fit her exactly. Knowing how her sister took great pride in her creations, there was something very odd going on indeed. Padma withdrew her necklace from her robes, marveling at its new appearance. The color of the stone itself was lighter and seemed to pulse with unknown magic while the chain itself was moving. Golden links intertwined together like miniature snakes locking themselves into tighter and tighter chains. She was starting to regret not asking her mother more questions about the necklace especially considering the reaction it had with the archway.

 

Padma touched her face and was astonished to note that it was slightly textured. She hadn’t had spots since she was teen! She wished for a mirror but without her wand that was impossible. A physiological change was unexpected but not entirely unwarranted if only she had gotten a better look at those Runes…

 

She pulled up the blue sleeves of her robes, eyes immediately catching onto black ink that stained her skin. Her forearms appeared to be imprinted with what appeared to be the coiling body of a long black snake. The creature was moving – black ink fluid on her skin as it shifted along her forearms and disappeared further up her sleeves. Waking up with a magical tattoo that she had no recollection of was far more spontaneous than Padma was capable of. This seemed more along the lines of whatever hijinks Parvati got up to when she went out on benders. Frightened and cautious, Padma sharply tugged her sleeves down as though keeping it of out sight would make it disappear entirely.

 

Her eyes looked over at the Riddle boy again, seeking normalcy in the way his breathing was steady and even. It centered her when it felt like she was on the edge of flying to pieces. Padma tried her best to match his breathing as she took note of his plain collared shirt and black trousers. Muggle clothing—second-hand Muggle clothing if her sister had taught her anything. For a moment she felt guilt at dragging what could only be an innocent into this mess but she couldn’t allow herself to dwell on whatever chaos she had introduced into the time stream.

 

Apparently, she had been speaking Parseltongue–a language that had completely died out in Magical Great Britain. Not even Harry Potter, the famed last Parselmouth, spoke it anymore for he was far too content to let the language fade into oblivion. He had good reason considering who the _other_ Speaker had been. Her skin prickled at the thought.

 

Padma had studied Parselscript briefly during a small research trip in Pakistan but the spoken ability had always been beyond her. Fluency in Parseltongue was inherited not learned. Even with her knack for Runes, her knowledge of Parselscript had been rather mediocre considering she could only really imitate the way it was written–similar to that of a child copying down lines from one of their favorite stories. Just as Padma was going to linger in the shadow of that memory, her companion woke with a start.

 

She felt his panic before she saw it with her own two eyes. It made his magic jagged and sharp—like how she imagined the sting of a dozen wasps to feel—but oddly she didn’t feel at all disturbed by it. Then again, fear was the natural response to an unknown location especially since it appeared that they had just been dumped into a makeshift jail cell.

 

“What’s your name?” Padma asked, there was nothing else that could be gleaned from the room and at this very moment it seemed like her lack of knowledge about her potential cellmate could no longer be overlooked. She watched almost enviously as he fluidly sat up, seemingly with none of the stiffness she had herself. Riddle regained his composure, calming his magic so quickly that it made Padma inherently suspicious. _This one knows how to hide things_ , she thought. His eyes were a darker blue than expected and she only noticed now as they sat across from each other on their respective cot.

 

_“Is that wise?”_

 

She didn’t immediately realize that he was speaking in Parseltongue until she felt the hollow ringing become louder. No, it was very likely that asking for his name was actually the most foolish thing she could do but it felt like the best course of action—the only course of action at this point.

 

“ _Probably not_ ,” she agreed, taking the time to register how she sounded in Parseltongue. Did she have an accent? She hadn’t been born speaking it after all. It wasn’t wise to ask especially considering the added danger her actions now carried. It was a surreal thing to realize that she was the magical equivalent of a pair of shears snipping away at the lines of life as though they were mere threads. Now was likely the best time to employ that legendary Ravenclaw wisdom but it warred with her curiosity and it was steadily losing ground. _“But is it not wise to seek answers?”_

 

She watched as his eyes narrowed calculatingly. “You’re a Ravenclaw, aren’t you?”

 

Padma couldn’t help but crack a smile. “What gave it away?”

 

There was warmth in Riddle’s smile but she noticed how it didn’t touch his eyes—didn’t touch his magic. _He’s lying_ , his magic seemed to whisper. “Just a guess.”

 

Her lips twitched. She shouldn’t know that—she shouldn’t be able to hear what his magic was saying— _she shouldn’t know that_. Knowledge had its own power and Padma was already starting to wonder what costs were incurred from the gifts she’d received after falling through the archway. She was a Parselmouth with a magical tattoo that was as beautiful as it was dangerous and several decades lost in the past.

 

Traveling through time didn’t bestow magical powers. Mintumble had aged dramatically after her stint in the past—aging centuries in a number of seconds tended to have that sort of effect. The witch had reportedly turned to dust in front of the eyes of her colleagues.

 

Every wizard knew unfortunate things happened to those who messed with time. Padma didn’t need to be an Unspeakable know that fact.

 

_“How long have you been a Speaker?”_ She asked, making certain to remember the word he had used. A rune flashed in the forefront of her mind—speaker, charmer, story-teller. That seemed to be a safer topic than his name. Knowledge acquired could not be unlearned—only forgotten.

 

His eyes were cold though his mouth had a practiced warmth. She got the sense that he had spent time training himself to smile in front of a mirror before going out and showing it to the world. It felt more meticulous and prepared than natural. _“Nearly all my life. I found a garden snake in the yard once and that’s how I knew.”_ His pride was obvious and it tempered his otherwise gaunt features. _“Are you implying that you became a Speaker?”_

She saw her own curiosity reflected in eyes. A fascination that could spark a bonfire. Dangerous as it was seductive.

 

Padma could only nod as her mind raced with questions. _Why was I sent here? Why was I sent to this time—to him?_

 

“Where did you get that necklace?” He asked. “Why does it have its own magic?”

 

“My mother.” That was a safe answer seeing as it was true. The second question was deceivingly difficult to answer. The thought of her necklace being one of the famed Jewels of Heaven was preposterous and yet…

 

His silence said multitudes. Padma mentally kicked herself for answering when she remembered the way he had side-stepped the question about his parents. _A muggle dwelling_ , he called it. Such a detached description for the place where he rested his head at night. While she wasn’t Parvati, Padma could certainly hear what was obviously unsaid. An orphan likely with no living magical relatives.

 

_“Where are we?”_ Padma listened and wondered at his sudden switch back to Parseltongue. He seemed to prefer it when speaking with her. Padma could imagine he likely had a fondness for it—everyone knew that Parseltongue was blood-based—perhaps it made him feel closer to his family in some strange way.

 

_“I don’t know.”_ She considered sharing her thoughts about it being a jail cell but chose to keep her silence. There was no use in worrying him; he was still a Hogwarts student as Unspeakable Urey had mentioned and Padma wanted him to enjoy that for as long as possible. Especially since she and countless of her peers didn’t.

 

Riddle didn’t like that answer considering how it made the curve of his mouth sharper. His magic was unsettled and the longer Padma looked at him the more she could the fear beginning to bleed out of his features. What good was a wall if he let things slip so easily? Perhaps it was because she was too savvy for him, she had long grown use to forced stoicism and fragile smiles. The war had been devastating and its effects had sunk deep into the cracks of everyday life. She felt oddly protective of him, let him still think that magic is a wondrous thing and not the devastating force of nature it could be.

 

Riddle stood, his movements and gait smooth and she wondered why he was spending so much time pretending to be fine when his magic revealed the truth. Padma blinked. Perhaps he wasn’t aware that he was projecting? It had been ages since she had been around students and others not practiced in shielding their magic from others. Still, she could not remember the last time she had heard someone’s magic so clearly. Not even with Parvati.

 

Padma noticed the way he never quite turned his back towards her even within this small room as he looked over the walls, looking for what she wasn’t quite sure. The room was empty. If this truly was a jail cell then they would have taken certain precautions to keep them trapped. Nevertheless, she watched him, hoping that she’d be proven wrong. That perhaps there truly was a door to this room and that her paranoia and cynicism were for naught.

 

The walls were white-washed stone, unremarkable and solid. Her fingers brushed the rough cloth of the cot again. Slowly, Padma unfolded her legs and allowed them to dangle over the edge of the cot. She was shorter now, and she bit her lip hard to stop her panic. _How much had she changed? Why had she changed?_

Quietly, she stood to her feet. Though she was cognizant of the pain, she ignored it. Padma soon stood shoulder to shoulder to him staring at the far wall from the cots, unsure of what she was seeing. At first glance, the wall seemed solid but in between blinks, for the briefest of moments, she could see how it quaked and buckled.

 

_“You see it too,”_ he confirmed.

 

Padma’s throat was dry and she found herself unable to answer verbally. Nonetheless, she found her fingers reaching out as if to touch the stone—just the barest of touches so then she would know what she was looking at—when a pale hand snatched hers back.

 

Her magic jolted and sparked. He dropped her hand faster than if it were a hot coal but Padma felt the burn of his touch regardless. _What was that?_

She felt rather than saw her confusion reflected back onto him. Padma turned her attention back to the wall and instead chose to step forward, ignoring the silent protests of her companion’s magic. Cautiously as she reached out to touch the stone, she found that her entire hand slipped through seemingly solid stone.

 

“Just like King’s Cross,” she murmured.

 

Padma took another step. “You can’t mean to go _forward_ ,” Riddle rebuked.

 

She brushed off his unease as she turned her head to look him directly in the eyes. They were the same height, she noticed. “You mean to go _backwards_?”

 

“Then you know what’s out there?” He seemed calmer at the assumption that she knew what she was doing.

 

“What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.” She had read those words once and they had stuck with her. In times of weakness, Padma had needed that power. She needed to convince herself that she was invincible.

 

He scoffed. It was the first real emotion he hadn’t lied about since he had woken. “What kind of respectable witch memorizes Muggle plays?”

Padma rolled her eyes. “What kind of wizard eschews knowledge based on its origin?” She had almost forgotten about that if she were honest. Sixty years past and it was annoying to see ignorance still alive and thriving. His jaw twitched and though it was puerile, Padma felt a dark satisfaction that her words had at least stung.

 

Without hesitation, Padma continued to walk forward. The only way back to Parvati was forward and Padma would live to see her sister again. She swore it—on her magic and her soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. He Watches

The sound of Augusta's boots echoed in the hallway as she followed behind Croaker who was levitating a tray of food. Her arms were full of parchment and files and dossiers, all of which were likely more confidential than the last. Anomalies meant secrets which oddly enough also meant mounds and mounds of paperwork. She had always joked that if anyone had a clue about the amount of paperwork an Unspeakable sorted through within an hour, no one would bother to take the job in the first place. That was a lie of course; there was nothing more Urey liked best than the smell of parchment and the satisfaction of a clean report. It was likely one of the few reasons why she worked so well with Croaker in the first place.

She took care to hide how frazzled she felt at the recent turn of events; it was lucky that Croaker was unable to see her face as they turned yet another corner. Croaker was leading her deeper and deeper into the department. The upper levels contained the flashier labs, mostly to delight and entertain the stray Ministry official who deigned to grace them with their presence. Any Unspeakable worth their pumpkin juice would know that inner workings were often hidden behind bland office doors. Shadows within shadows, as her mentor had told her.

Surprisingly it had been Croaker who had brought up the fact that their wards would require nourishment. Augusta preferred to think of them as  _wards_  considering Riddle was still a student though Patil's status as an Unspeakable made her own age a bit ambiguous. Urey hoped that Patil was at least of age—the thought of an underage Unspeakable was shocking, to say the least—and she had erroneously thought she had reached a point in her career where she could no longer be surprised.

It had also been her idea, of course, to make sure that Croaker hadn't just dumped the pair into one of the holding cells deep within the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. Their department operated outside of the lines and boundaries set by the DMLE and that meant that Unspeakables governed their own and  _punished_  their own when the need arose. Urey had never seen those cells in person but she knew well enough that they existed. Croaker had dropped mentions of them-more like off-hand remarks-and she knew Croaker was not one to exaggerate needlessly. The thought of there being wizards simply languishing miles underground turned Urey's stomach. The thought of stowing their wards there was enough to make the bile boil in her stomach.

Unauthorized time travel was still, in fact, highly illegal and forbidden. A rule that Unspeakable Patil should have been well aware of. But then of course accidents did happen. Or rather,  _magic_  happened. Urey's years as an Unspeakable had made her only more aware of how little control they had over Magic itself. If Unspeakable Patil had somehow knowingly arrived sixty years into the past, well, Augusta would eat her hat and Croaker's too.

Augusta momentarily sped up until her stride matched Croaker's, keeping pace with him as she murmured, "Don't you fret now about the stew—haven't met a soul who didn't like it." Her words did the trick in making Croaker roll his eyes and Augusta felt the tension in her own shoulders loosen. She bit back a snort when she caught Croaker's chest puff up with pride.

"You did check on our—guests?" Croaker asked, taking care to drop his voice. Augusta could not see anyone else in the hallways but she couldn't chide Croaker for his caution. In the Department of Mysteries, a secret rarely ever stayed as such.

"O' course I did. They were still sleeping like babes last I checked. All that worrying isn't good for you—any more of that and Healer Mallory might try to dose you with one of her concoctions."

"Healer Mallory believes that all of life's ailments can be solved with an utterly repulsive brew and a night's rest." Croaker sniffed. "Give her forty-eight hours and she'll bring me a draught that can supposedly 'cure' the effects of time travel."

Augusta hid a smile by acting as though she was engrossed in the written content of one of the dossiers she was holding. Healer Mallory had been the one to tell her that Croaker had barely passed his Potions O.W.L., scraping along with an A. It made it rather difficult to take any of his whinging seriously after that.

The pair finally arrived at the makeshift waiting room-though in actuality, it more of a holding room- that they'd converted from one of the broom closets in their little corner of the department. Croaker had chosen the location, stating that nearly everyone ignored it considering it merely served as a storage room for old furniture.

Augusta watched as he stopped in front of the plain brown door, placing his right palm over the painted wood as she withdrew her wand from her sleeve. It would take both of their magic to dissolve the ward on the door. Patil and Riddle's magic was still volatile and the closet had needed to be reinforced to make sure it would hold even against another 'accident'. Croaker kept a close watch on either side of the hallway, likely to make sure no unwanted guests suddenly arrived. When Croaker nodded, Augusta waved her wand counter-clockwise in a slow and steady fashion. The door rattled for a moment before swinging open noisily.

She followed in after Croaker, nearly jumping in surprise when she heard the tray of food crash to the floor. Augusta looked up from the parchment in her hands to see Croaker standing stock still. She opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong but stopped when she saw the two empty cots in an even emptier room.

"Well, at least the room's still left standing?" Augusta offered weakly as she watched Croaker's face flit through a multitude of colors. Wandlessly, she performed a Scourgify and a Reparo at the fallen stew and dishes while stowing away a sigh.

She had rather been looking forward to that stew too.

 

 

* * *

 

Tom Riddle was having an extraordinary day. That was to say, he was experiencing a day that was so far outside his ordinary that his composure was slipping at an alarming rate. The last time he had felt so unsettled had been the day that Dumbledore had come to inform him that he was a wizard and that Tom would be going to school with others just like him (of course, Tom would later realize that none of the other children were even like him in the slightest).

Dumbledore was in a class of his very own, that much had been strikingly obvious to Tom once he met the other professors. Even Dumbledore's command of magic was seen as an anomaly—a fact that had simultaneously disappointed and relieved him. Of all the wizards Tom had ever met, only Dumbledore had truly impressed him.

That was, of course, until Padma Patil had fallen into his room in all her bloody glory.

He had been stunned as he watched her boldly march into the unknown without even gifting him a second glance. It had been a rash sort of fearlessness that Tom had erroneously believed only Gryffindors were capable of. He seemed to be doing that rather often lately. His sources were becoming more and more worthless by the moment. Tom had become far too complacent in his latent Legilimency abilities—he'd grown used to the security and sameness of Hogwarts, naively depending on Dumbledore as a benchmark when none of his peers appeared ready to challenge him. The thought that he was not nearly as extraordinary as he had thought was a bitter one and though he had dismissed it quickly enough, it lingered in the hallows of his mind like a bad smell.

It was with this thought in mind that Tom found himself following after her. He stepped forward as though the wall was merely a veil rather than solid stone. Arguably it simply was the most logical course of action, he needed Patil's experience and expertise. He refused to acknowledge that the room also reminded him all too much of Wool's with its bland smooth walls and hard cots. The thought of being left there alone after meeting the only other human Speaker sat heavy like a stone in his gut.

Tom stepped out into cold water—grimacing as it flooded his shoes. He'd had prepared the usual charms on them to make them just a bit less shabby or least not noticeably so considering that clothing was just another symbol of rank in the Slytherin house (nevermind the fact that they all wore the same uniform). While Tom's charms were never less than perfect, he had never foreseen stepping into knee-high ocean water. The noise of birds and waves crashed into his ears as the water chilled him to the bone. The sun hung lazily in the sky seemingly not giving any warmth as it sank further and further into the horizon.

He cast a wary eye at his surroundings. For what seemed to be miles was simply a sandy shoreline framed by a rough cliffside and dark blue water on the other. Tom turned around as if to expect to see the small cramped room right where he had left it but found nothing but the empty expanse of the ocean.

He spotted Unspeakable Patil kneeling in the sand on the shore and relief flooded his veins for the very briefest of moments. The only thing worse being stranded on some strange oceanside would be to have been stranded  _alone_. He trudged his way towards the sand, grimacing as his shoes squelched and sank into wet sand and rocks.

Tom pursed his lips when he noticed how her expensive blue robes were dragging along the wet sand. Tom slipped his hand into his pocket, reaching for the reassuring warmth of his wand and felt ice settle in his veins when he found nothing but lint. With a forced casualness, he checked the other pocket and found nothing.

He grit his teeth so hard they could have cracked.  _They had taken his wand._

It was only when he came to stand next to her that he realized that Unspeakable Patil was inspecting a large piece of driftwood half-buried in the sand. Its branches were spindly and its color washed out no doubt due to the salt and water. As he grew closer, Tom found it difficult to understand what could possibly be so interesting about a piece of wood especially when they had stolen his wand. Unspeakables were dangerous far more so than the few bumbling Ministry officials he had met at Sluggy's parties. He had been an utter fool and now they had taken his wand.

"Why are we here?" Tom's voice was tightly controlled. It was a wonder that it didn't manage to cut the wood in front of them considering how sharp it was.

Patil looked up and nothing in her features seemed surprised by his presence. "Do you know this place?" She asked quietly.

Tom said nothing as he watched the waves, trying to keep his temper and fear at bay. He had forgotten what it was like to not have his wand at his fingertips. Ever since that fateful day at Ollivander's, Tom took pains to ensure he was never without it. Despite his turmoil, he considered her question. The shoreline did look familiar as though he was looking at a moving photograph rather than a memory. The truth was that he did know this place.

Years ago an anonymous benefactor had donated money to Wool's. Unfortunately, this benefactor was exceedingly impractical in a way that those accustomed to wealth often were since the donor had stipulated that this money was only to be used so that the poor orphans might see the seaside. So instead of new clothing or books or blankets or even food for that matter, they piled them into a train carriage and sent them on a day trip to see a vast ocean before returning to their drab little orphanage. How cruel it had been, Tom belatedly reflected, how cruel to show them how small they truly were in this world by showing them the vast relentlessness of the ocean.

He had very nearly forgotten. Much of his memories associated with Wool's were far too easily pushed aside but now it rushed back all at once. His spine was rigid and his suspicion festered.  _Why would they have been sent here?_

Patil had apparently taken his silence as an affirmation since she then asked, "Do you know if there is a town nearby? I don't fancy trying to travel in darkness." Patil was right, the sun was sinking fast and their prospects were dwindling by the moment.

"There is one." Describing it as a town was a bit of stretch but Tom vaguely remembered a small seaside village some walk away—it had been where the train had stopped—and he turned away from the shore to look for a path. There had been a rough cluster of cottages and a pub that served as a barber and pie-shop in one. "Would it not be best for us to remain here? They're likely searching for us." The thought of simply wandering around without his wand was utterly unpalatable.

"Perhaps." Patil rose to her feet and exhaled heavily. "But I'd rather take our luck with the Muggles for now rather than to be sent through another mirror."

"Muggles?" Tom echoed, unable to take the sneer out of his voice completely. "You think the Muggles would provide safety? The war may have ended in your time but it's long from over in this one." His brain chewed over what she had said, however. It implied that someone had knowingly led them here. Someone had enchanted the wall to let them escape though he couldn't fathom why they'd been sent to  _this_  shore.

"I know that," she replied sharply before biting her lip. He watched as she fidgeted with her too-long sleeves. She was silently debating something but the argument ended rather quickly when she finally replied, "Something happened in that room—in your room—before the Unspeakables came. Something changed me."

Tom focused on her eyes as the memory of touching her necklace flashed through his mind. He cursed himself three more times, using the language he'd learned on the streets when he had nothing better to do than to eavesdrop and steal. "All the more reason to wait for their return. If there's something wrong with you, the Unspeakables will know how to fix it."

Doubt drew her mouth into a straight line and Tom felt his mind blaze. What could have happened that even someone like Unspeakable Patil believed it to be immutable? His hand twitched as though still feeling the ghost of when his own magic had sparked and crackled. It hadn't done something like that in ages, not since he had been experimenting with his magic years before he had known what it was.

Despite his words, something like ice settled deep in his belly as he remembered the way their magic had sparked. Something had changed—had changed both of them. And there was a great possibility that someone had purposely led them away from the Unspeakables. If that was the case, then they certainly couldn't simply wait there. What if the Unspeakables weren't even aware of their disappearance? All it would have taken was a well-placed  _Obliviate_ —a charm that Tom had employed time and time again.

Patil acknowledged his words with a nod but did nothing further except to lightly shake the sand off her robes. She began to walk away, her boots sinking into the sand. It would have been comical if Tom wasn't too busy scowling about the wet sand in his own shoes.

"You can't mean to walk there," Tom called out after her.

Patil stopped, turning her head just slightly to look at him. "Do you have your wand then?" She asked, causing Tom to internally bristle with irritation. He did not visibly react to her question but his silence was deafening even with the waves breaking in the background.

When Patil turned her back, Tom realized that he was waiting for an invitation that would never come. He watched her blue robes whip around in the wind for a few beats, mood and magic curdling. Staying was likely the best course of action since Tom highly doubted the Unspeakables would allow a rogue Time Traveller to roam loose in the countryside but without his wand what options did he truly have? The wind was growing colder against his back and the thought of another party—an unknown group with vested interest in keeping them away from the Unspeakables—made it seem foolhardy to separate.

And so Tom Riddle followed reluctantly while taking care not to drag his feet and soil his shoes any further.

"Does this town have a pub?" Patil asked as they got further away from the shoreline.

Tom nodded jerkily, glad that their similar strides meant that he didn't have to end up waiting for her. His mind was too busy plotting and calculating and cursing whatever moronic piece of dung thought it was a good idea to steal his wand. He appeased himself by promising vengeance.

"Good. I'll need a pint. . .or three," she muttered under her breath.

With the day Tom had, he had no choice but to agree. His stomach was starting to quietly make its desire for food known but it was not an unfamiliar feeling. Wool's had forcibly taught him many things and learning how to stave off his hunger had been a lesson he'd learned rather quickly.

The sun was setting far faster than expected—sunlight fading into dusk and then dusk melting into darkness. The thought of trudging along in wet shoes and trousers for nearly hour (for that had been how long it had taken the group from Wool's to reach the beach) was nearly unbearable and became even more so when Tom spotted a cottage along the wayside. Vaguely, he remembered it but it had been empty to his recollection. Or at the very least unoccupied.

"We'll freeze in these wet clothes before reaching the town and without sufficient light, we'll likely walk in circles," Tom decided. The moon was waning—a thin crescent in the sky backlit by pinpricks of lights. "Head towards that cottage over there."

Patil didn't argue; she had been more or less silent during their trek and Tom didn't know what to make of it. He had been glad that she wasn't rather chatty considering he had neither the mood nor the patience to pretend at the moment but he felt uneasy. Patil was a Speaker, true, and while that made her interesting that did not make her trustworthy. While he doubted that Patil had the same command of wandless magic that he had (rudimentary but still serviceable considering the years he'd spent before even learning about Hogwarts), he could not quite dismiss the way she had simply animated a parchment bird with little more than blood and ink. Patil was dangerous because she was unknown.

The cottage was smaller and uglier than Tom remembered. While it seemed as though someone had attempted to paint it decades ago, whatever effort had succumbed to the elements. The windows were cracked and the structure itself seemed to barely hold itself upright. It was, however, thankfully empty. Long ago abandoned by its owners and left to fend for itself against the relentlessness of the seaside. The plain wooden door was locked as Tom discovered. Inhaling deeply as he placed his palm on the door handle, he focused his magic and tried to recall what it had felt like to use it before his receiving his wand.

With a light flick of his wrist, the door creaked open. There was no place in Wool's that could ever keep him out—the cottage door was no exception. He'd been sneaking food from the padlocked pantry for ages before Dumbledore had ever shown up in his wretched suit talking about his magical school. Mrs. Cole had remained convinced that they had rats which served as the reason why she maintained a trio of cats which were likely more well-fed than the children.

Tom half-expected Patil to reprimand him or at least admonish him—while wandless magic certainly wasn't illegal, breaking into a Muggle dwelling clearly was. Much to his silent surprise, she held her tongue. Fatigue was the overwhelming prominent characteristic of her face but any judgment she had was likely buried.

The dust in the air tickled Tom's nose but he managed to withhold his sneeze. Patil had no such luck, sneezing twice in a row in rapid succession. The contents of the cottage were sparse—an old pot-bellied stove shoved into a corner, a mismatched pair of chairs, a broken table and a large moldy mess of fabric that Tom quickly surmised to be the bed.

The entire cottage rattled when the wind blew particularly fiercely and Tom watched as Patil began to methodically search through the dresser drawers closest to the bed. Tom chose to snoop around the stove; surprisingly, he found a stack of peat and an old brick of tea. Or least he believed it to be tea, judging by the paper it was wrapped in and the way shavings had been carved off the top. Another drawer revealed nothing but crumpled newspapers but as Tom shifted the papers, he found a small metal knife no longer than the length of his hand. It was slightly rusted around the point but otherwise in decent condition.

"Find anything?" Pati asked from the other side of the room. "All that's here is a bent kettle, a few teacups and a nest of mice living in a chamberpot."

Tom stealthily pocketed the knife. The cold metal was a poor replacement for his wand but the weight in his pocket made him feel less vulnerable. "Just a stack of peat and a brick of tea looks like."

"Rather lucky then," Patil noted. "At least we won't freeze tonight."

"Do you plan on starting a fire by writing  _Eldr_  a hundred times on the stove?" Tom asked sourly—the cold and the aches of hunger made his public mask rather frail. He knew that Rune only because Nott had burned it into a table at the library much to Madam Mulligan's horror. Patil had just seen him use wandless magic to break into a cottage; he doubted that playing the priggish Head-Boy-to-be would still be advantageous so he let the full force of his sarcasm fly.

She snorted in amusement. "I forgot that Ancient Runes at Hogwarts was so focused on memorization besides we don't really need a Rune at all considering how our magic sparked when you touched my hand."

Tom's throat tightened. He hadn't known what had possessed him to touch her. Tom did not seek touch—though he had used it in small doses to manipulate and to press his authority never to protect an utter stranger.

"No need," Tom replied; his neck was stiff from tension. He was more than capable than creating a few sparks from his own magic,  _thank you very much_. Patil seemed to accept this but made no further inquiry into how Tom planned on creating a fire so he continued, "I thought I saw a hand pump outside."

"Hand pump?" Patil asked.

"Can't make tea without water." He wasn't sure if conjuring water wandlessly was within his capabilities much to Tom's displeasure. His practice at wandless magic had fallen to the wayside since starting at Hogwarts.

"Right," Patil agreed. Tom watched her as she left the cottage with a determined gait. If Patil was like any other Pureblood Tom had met, she'd likely be gone for at least an hour or more trying to understand how to use a Muggle contraption.

He had initially been shocked to learn that running water was a rather new invention in the Wizard World considering how many of his peers still casually mentioned chamber-pots and the like. It was only after years of observation that Tom realized how utterly slow the Wizarding World was at innovating itself—if the Muggle world dragged its feet then the Wizarding World  _crawled_. The Wizards liked to believe that their world was as close to perfect and whole as possible but Tom's position as an outsider made the cracks all too obvious. Grindelwald had seen them as well seeing as the man had been able to manipulate scores of Wizards to his side.

Despite the way the cottage shook as the wind rattled the walls, Tom found it rather peaceful. His task of creating a fire in the stove was easy though monotonous. He had learned how to make sparks over a decade ago—one time even successfully lighting one of the caretaker's cardigans on fire (the woman had been an utter shrew and Tom didn't like the way she eyed the children, least of all himself)—and his magic even as changed as it was still obeyed him faithfully. He felt safer here considering the idyllic surroundings meant the Muggles wouldn't dare waste precious fuel and bombs on an empty coastal countryside. Well, he felt as safe as he could without his wand.

The pot-bellied stove cast the single room in a warm glow and Tom sat back in one of the wooden chairs to admire his work and rest his cold, tired feet. Patil came back sooner than expected, shivering slightly from the cold and made a ruckus trying to shut the door. She placed the kettle (now full with water though some of it had sloshed onto the floor) on the stovetop before wearily settling down the other empty chair—it creaked as she sat seeing as Tom had taken the less shabby one for himself.

"How do you know this place?" She asked, cracking the established silence between them.

"They brought us here once." Nonchalant was the best route—the less information about the magic he'd done here the better. "How did you become an Unspeakable?" Best to keep the subject moving along.

"Passed the test. Though there were those who said they were a bit more lenient considering how desperate they were for applicants—"

"Why were they desperate for applicants?" Tom tried to keep his tone light and casual, disguising the hunger behind his words.

"Because of the—" Patil immediately stopped herself, clenching her jaw. "It's dangerous to talk about that."

Tom, however, was not discouraged. Her words have revealed plenty and now it was more just a game of patience so he played along. "What's it like to time travel?"

"Honestly? It's disorienting as all hell. Everything seems so familiar but there's—there's an overwhelming otherness to even most mundane things. I'm constantly being reminded that I'm not supposed to be here." Patil's words were chosen carefully as though Tom imagined her mentally cataloging this as a future essay she'd submit to an academic journal.

"Were you sent here?" Tom wondered aloud. "You didn't seem at all surprised to learn that you were in the past." Patil had been shocked, sure, but not dumbfounded.

"No, the Runes were. . ." Patil paused for a moment either to gather her thoughts or as thoughts or as though she was remembering something. "A part of me didn't want to believe it but. . ." For a moment her voice wavered and Tom was horrified that she was actually going to cry but the moment seemed to pass quickly.

The kettle whistled and Tom busied himself with the tea. Patil was staring off into one of the walls, seemingly lost in her thoughts and once again Tom wished his Legilimency skills were more developed. He considered taking the chance anyway but Patil was too much of an unknown factor. Unspeakables were expected to protect secrets so it was reasonable to assume that they had some understanding of Occlumency. Perhaps while she was asleep and her guard was lowered, he would take the risk.

Patil had been thoughtful enough to rinse out the teacups were clean albeit chipped. The act of making the tea was rather soothing and Patil was momentarily shaken out of her reverie as Tom placed the cup before her. He took pains to guarantee that their hands would not accidentally touch. A sip of the tea revealed it was surprisingly strong despite the few shavings he'd added though it's bitter taste was not nearly as smooth as he was accustomed to. It was far better than an empty stomach, however, and he felt considerably warmer.

"Do you have plans after Hogwarts?" Patil asked.

Oh, Tom had so many plans but ultimately he was rather reluctant to leave Hogwarts. So Tom chose to deflect while fish for information. "Are you going to tell me my fortune then? Advise me of something to prevent a descendant of mine from causing you trouble?" Humor, Tom had found, relaxed people more effectively than false smiles. Not that very many realized how false his smiles were but that was beside the point.

Patil gave him a weak smile. "Nothing so nefarious. Though it would be a mighty coincidence if I did know you, wouldn't it?"

 _Coincidence?_  Tom smirked. Rather he was counting on it—anonymity had never been something he was interested in. Tom wanted all the credit for his triumphs. And Tom was definitely curious—what better person to actually tell him his fortune than a Time Traveler?

Tom leaned back in his chair as he listened to the wild whistle of the wind; his mouth was still bitter from the tea. Nothing ventured, nothing gained—even the smallest Slytherin knew that lesson.

"Tom," he stated as the sound of the wind seemed to crescendo outside. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

For an extended moment of time, neither spoke. Patil's face was placid like the smooth surface of an undisturbed puddle—one that Tom was devoted to finding out how deep that tranquility ran.

"Well?" He asked impatience made him clutch the teacup harder than he should. Tom would never admit it but her silence was unnerving him.

Patil took a long sip of tea. "That name is not familiar to me."

The tea seemed to freeze in his stomach. All this time he naturally assumed that he would triumph—that the world would know his name—but to hear her casual admission and so dismissively broke something inside of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have rarely ever seen Tom Riddle at a disadvantage in fanfiction. He nearly always possesses the upper-hand and is always ridiculously great at magic. I thought it would be more interesting to see a Tom Riddle who is no longer as confident that his plan to take over the Wizarding World will work. A Tom who will second-guess and perhaps be a bit more shrewd and practical than the first one.
> 
> I hope to update more often this year—hopefully once a month if the story permits. I've written a lot of this story, actually, but it's not in chronological order much to my infinite disappointment.
> 
> "What though care killed a cat, thou has mettle enough in thee to kill care." - Willy Shakes, Much Ado Abou Nothing (A precursor of the common idiom "Curiosity killed the at but satisfaction brought it back".)


	5. They Search

The tea was horrible. Padma knew that for a fact the moment the swill touched her tongue. Nevertheless, like a good Englishwoman (to say nothing of her Indian heritage) she continued to sip it. The drink was warm and that was all that really mattered in this dreary little seaside cottage.

_ Riddle _ . 

A rather strange name, Padma had first decided. She had analyzed his features—prominent cheekbones, the pronounced cupid’s bow, the way his hair slightly curled towards the ends, and just the slightest amblyopia in the right eye which somehow made his gaze seem even more piercing—and felt like she was staring down a cliff. Padma was missing something very obvious and once she discovered it, she had no doubt she’d be berating herself for weeks.

Riddle had Old English origins; a descendant of  _ hrædels, redelse _ or  _ rædelse _ (for humans always rather did love their variety as Padma had noticed) and had lost meanings over time but one common factor had stayed the same—its meaning as a problem to be solved. And Tom Riddle was one such problem. Padma did not believe in coincidences and her belief had only been strengthened during her later schooling and subsequent posting as a Runemaster for the Unspeakables.

Riddle was not a Wizarding name, or at least not one she recognized. Not that Padma gave that any further thought. Pansy Parkinson had absolutely savored rubbing the fact that the Patils were a new-name, insignificant transplant from some backwater in India. She’d recited the list of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight as any dutiful pureblood daughter of bigoted parents should during their first playdate as their fathers discussed a possible business agreement. Nevermind that Padma’s ancestral tree ran longer than the lies Parkinson could spin—she’d once told Parvati that she was engaged to a Swiss prince—and Padma had not been sad to learn that the partnership had crashed and burned not just a few months later.

“Just because I don’t know your name doesn’t really mean very much,” Padma quickly added, realizing that her earlier statement had been crushingly tactless especially to a fifth-year who hadn’t taken his O.W.L.s yet. Parvati had grown out of it but Padma was still very much prone to committing the occasional social faux-pas. Writing and studying Runes was  _ so _ much easier than socializing. “You could have left Britain for all I know or even have become an Unspeakable.”

Though it was far more likely he’d lived a life of common anonymity as most wizards did.

Riddle made a face and Padma guessed that it was likely not because of the tea. Her words had likely been too heavy-handed to be of any comfort but she continued because the way his magic had reacted was enough to make her visibly wince. “The founder of Ilvermorny had been a descendant of Slytherin and a Parselmouth to boot. Maybe you went across the pond to find your kin there?”

“If I was an Unspeakable wouldn’t you have recognized me?” Riddle said nothing more on Ilvermorny but his eyes had glimmered in the low light.

Padma snorted. “Not if we weren’t in the same department. The only reason I recognized Croaker is because he proctored one of my exams—I still remember how he bellowed at one of the applicants for not following directions.” Most Unspeakables directly reported to their supervisors or department head but the hierarchy above them was rather murky. Apparently, it was an added form of security though Padma knew it was rather faulty considering how easily Death Eaters were able to slip through the cracks. Allegedly there had a been an audit done of all current Unspeakables and their loyalties—oaths were updated and written as far more binding—but it had been less than a decade. Time would tell whether it worked.

She had very nearly wanted to sag back into the rickety chair in relief when Riddle’s mood had lightened.  Padma had forgotten how mercurial teenagers were—her only experience with children began and ended with doting on the toddlers of her various friends and acquaintances. And cousins, she supposed but her cousins were all older than her anyway and beginning to start families of their own.

_ Slytherin then _ , she idly noted. Only someone whose ego and ambition was so limitless that they expected a Time Traveler to know who they were. Or she could be utterly wrong, though she thought she’d have  _ at least _ taken notice of a Parselmouth who had been sorted into Hufflepuff. Though it was far more likely that he had hidden the ability from the public, however, considering how it was perceived rather unfavorably in Britain.

Padma thanked the gods that she hadn’t been so thoughtless as to add that it was entirely possible for him to have died before her time. The wars—both Muggle and Wizard—had been rather devastating. Padma just hoped that if Riddle was, in fact, due for an untimely end, it wasn’t a direct consequence of one of her actions. Hopefully, Riddle would continue his life in peace after this brief interlude and would be none the worse for it. Padma certainly couldn’t fathom the Unspeakables punishing a civilian especially a  _ minor _ —even if the boy had broken into a Muggle cottage using wandless magic.

“Who taught you to open doors like that?” Padma asked while knowing full well that it was likely self-taught. Unspeakable Urey’s words of Tom’s ‘ward’ status had cemented that conclusion for her since wizards wouldn’t open an orphanage until 1999 when there had been too many children without homes. He certainly didn’t learn magic from the  _ Muggles. _

Riddle shrugged; his face was the picture of innocence. “I spent years of my life not knowing what I was, as far as I knew it was just a parlor trick until my Hogwarts letter.”

“That must have taken extraordinary control.” Padma was suitably impressed, it was nearly unheard of for children to be able to control their accidental magic or at least it was in Britain (she’d learned that Nigerian wizards didn’t bother with wands at all—but that was beside the point). 

Riddle gave her a wan smile, frail as it was artificial. It almost made her want to pull at his lips with her fingers to see if that mask was anything like the plastic ones she’d seen at a fancy dress party once. It was a ridiculous thought and yet her fingers twitched half-tempted. “You seem to be taking your sudden departure from your own time rather well.” Padma wouldn’t venture so far as to say his words were a compliment since there was an underlying current of. . . _ something _ that lurked under them. She wasn’t the best conversationalist but understanding what wasn’t said aloud was a skill she’d been forced to learn as she walked that thin political tightrope of being a foreign Pureblood in a land on the verge of a civil war, well, until Parvati dragged her into Dumbledore’s Army. Padma liked to think that she would have joined them eventually but it had been Parvati who had really pushed, veiling her motivations as she cajoled Padma into joining the ‘study group’.  _ Gods, _ Padma swallowed back the sudden urge to cry,  _ gods she missed her sister. _

Rain pelted the windows and she watched the water drip from the roof in the far corner of the room. The wind was even ghastlier than before and Padma felt wide awake at the sound. The tea had at least helped with her earlier fatigue even if it tasted as though something had died in her mouth.  _ Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a decent mouth-cleaning charm right about now! _ Runes could only do so much, sadly. She likely could have devised something but it would have been far more trouble than it was worth.

“It’s an adjustment, certainly, but I’ll be back in my own time soon enough and out of your hair for good.” She couldn’t bring herself to swallow any more of that damned tea and decided to set it aside.

Truthfully her paranoia made her far jumpier than a spooked Kneazle. Whoever had sent them here had purposefully wanted to isolate them from the Unspeakables though she couldn’t fathom why they’d bring Tom along too. Perhaps it had been a mistake? It was unlikely but she couldn’t quite strike the possibility from her mind. But how had they known Padma was even here in the first place? Either they had a source within the Department of Mysteries—which was possible considering how the Death Eaters had infiltrated its ranks during the last war—or they had known about her arrival before it had even happened.

Padma couldn’t quite rule out that the D.o.M. was at least partially involved—the mirror inside the makeshift jail cell had stunk of an inside job. The hole in her memory had everything seem so much more suspicious especially since she didn’t have the slightest clue as to what had caused it.

“Why did you land in my room in the first place?” Tom asked. “I live miles away from Diagon Alley in a section of London where there are no Magical residents.”

“Well it certainly wasn’t by  _ choice _ ,” Padma replied rather tartly. “We were told the artifact hadn’t been used in centuries not that I would  _ ever _ trust the word of some Ministry bureaucrat who’s never read a single Rune in their lives. Magic is chaotic and seemingly illogical but for whatever reason, it decided that the best location for my arrival was in your bed sixty years in the past. It could have just as easily dumped me at the bottom of the ocean.” Though her words were spoken in the same tone, Padma had difficulty suppressing a shiver at the thought—she could have very easily just been killed by Magic’s whim.

“How fortunate,” Tom noted; though his Magic told it was just the opposite.

_ How embarrassing, _ Padma thought. Either he was the worst liar in the world or he had no idea that his Magic was actively broadcasting his thoughts. For a moment she contemplated informing him but decided against it. Practicality begged her to keep a wary eye on everyone even if Riddle was a just a fifth-year student without a wand. Padma would readily admit that after the war it had been difficult to openly trust especially not when her instincts had screamed otherwise.

“I don’t suppose you’d know when this war will be over? Granted if the History of Magic class is anything like it is now. . .”

“It hasn’t changed a bit from what I understand. Though having a ghost as a professor does breed consistency if not monotony.” Padma doubted it would ever change considering that Professor Binns had been teaching for decades and would continue to do so. 

“You’re taught history by a ghost?” Riddle gave her a look that told her that he was unsure if she was joking but had decided to humor her anyway. “He’s likely a better lecturer than our own professor.”

“He’s been a ghost for as long as anyone can remember. Rumor has it that he died in the staff room one morning and just drifted into the class as a ghost. Gave everyone quite a fright as I’m told.” She supposed even as time passed some things never changed—History of Magic would always be boring in any decade. The Padma had thought it was rather pitiful, however, considering that Binns had no idea that he had died. Poor fellow would likely continue teaching History of Magic until the end times. Though she supposed at a certain point it would become necessary to bring in someone else—Binns wasn’t even aware he was a ghost and she doubted that he had taken note of anything that had happened during the last war. 

“What year is now, 1942?” Padma asked rhetorically since the year had been practically burned into her mind as it had left Croaker’s lips. She gave Riddle a thoughtful look. “It won’t be too long for the Wizarding side of things maybe two years or was it three?” History of Magic had never been her greatest subject especially since she was always reading books instead of listening to Binns. 

Just a few more years until the Wizarding World would stick their heads back into the sand all the while ignoring the reasons  _ why _ Grindelwald had gotten so popular in the first place and continue to claim they’ve progressed.

“How can you not be sure?” His question practically glittered with seeded malice.

Padma frowned at his disdain. “I’m sorry if I was a little busy fighting a war instead of listening to another one of Binns’ monologues!” She bit her lip harsh enough to draw blood, realizing she’d let far more slip than she wanted.

Riddle smirked in triumph—his gaze dark and calculating. Definitely a snake, she concluded in her mind. Padma blamed it on the fatigue since that seemed to be the only reasonable explanation. Idly, she wondered if all teens were this annoying. Thank the  _ gods _ she never decided to pursue a professorship. 

“Did you win?” The question was so absurd it that Padma’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. Typical people didn’t ask if you won the war—they’d offer condolences and platitudes of a similar nature.

“That’s what you’re wondering about? I just told you that the Wizarding World will be engulfed in war  _ again _ before the century even ends and you want to know if we  _ won? _ ”

“History is written by the victors,” Tom replied casually.

“What a naive thing to say,” Padma finally murmured, the words strained and forced. Rationally, she tried to remember that Tom was so far detached from the conflict that he didn’t know how she had watched students tortured in the halls of Hogwarts because of who their parents were. Didn’t know how the limbs kept twitching even after the Cruciatus spell was lifted. Her magic boiled and it felt as though her veins were on fire.

“Did you lose then?” He asked and she wanted to pluck his eyes out of his head. The walls of the cottage shook.

Forcibly she inhaled because losing control of her magic would have been inexcusable especially after she finally realized he was provoking her intentionally.  _ What sort of game was this little worm playing?  _ Her temper was much shorter than she remembered, perhaps not only had her body had regressed in age but her mind as well? Troubling, astoundingly troubling. Coming into majority had been strenuous enough the first time, Padma had doubts she’d be able to fully survive a second go around.

The air was still as she exhaled through her nose. What side of history did this. . .boy join? Padma couldn’t deny her own biases against Slytherin house—she’d seen what her year-mates had done and what some of them had been coerced to do. Eventually, it came to a point where it was difficult to tell the difference. They’d all been children but this Tom Riddle would have been a man grown by the time You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters began to plague the country.  _ Voldemort, _ she mentally corrected herself. How silly to be still afraid of a name that likely didn’t even exist yet.

They’d won but it felt more like a pyrrhic victory than any true triumph. He had been wiped off the face of the Earth thanks to Harry but the wounds ran deep and without due diligence, they would eventually become septic.  “We won,” the words tasted bitter on her tongue as they left her mouth, “but no triumph is total.”

Tom merely hummed in response, it was difficult to tell what he was thinking when his magic wasn’t actively projecting his thoughts. He had no further words for her thankfully since Padma was unsure how much longer she could hold herself back if he decided to press against the wounds in her heart.

 

* * *

 

“I think it’s time we told someone about this Croaker,” Augusta tiredly suggested, eyes strained from scanning parchment for even the slightest deviation from the norm. They’d hoped that another large magical anomaly would clue them into where Patil and Riddle had managed to run off to. The room was supposed to be completely secure using two different warding schemes keyed into only their magic. The most disturbing detail had been that neither she nor Croaker could conclusively rule out whether it had been an Unspeakable or a third party that had absconded with their wards. The mere concept of there being a mole in the department scared her witless.

“Just keep searching Urey,” Croaker intoned, his eyes squinting behind a pair of round gold-wire spectacles. “Don’t let our groveling to Orla go to waste.”

Augusta rubbed her eyes, unable to argue. Orla had practically lorded the opportunity over their heads, and she’d been conniving enough to extract a few favors in the process. Merlin, she was not looking forward to when Orla would decide to cash those in. Then again, Orla seemed to be the type to sit and wait. Favoring to horde and compile her favors until the odds were utterly stacked in her favor.

She stood up from her desk, choosing to look away from what appeared to be an endless scroll of parchment. They’d been searching for hours now with nearly nothing to show for it. “Croaker,” Augusta began irritably. “We’ve checked the records for nearly three hours now—we’re approaching this problem entirely wrong. There must be a better source of data to track their whereabouts than this.”

Croaker sighed, removing his spectacles before rubbing his face with his hands. Augusta watched as he carefully folded them before stowing the glasses away in one of his hidden pockets. She pressed on, sensing that Croaker was finally relenting to at least glimpse at reason. “We have to tell someone  _ Saul _ . For all we know Patil is just wandering about un-birthing dozens of people.”

“If she’d done that we would have at least noticed,” Croaker countered. “Un-birthing causes tremendous fluctuations in the time stream, but so far all of our records are merely showing that the length of today was extended by a few milliseconds—absolutely nothing like the data collected during Mintumble’s absence.”

“Well Mintumble did journey further back than Patil, maybe that’s why we’re only seeing a small degree of change?” Even to Augusta, her argument sounded weak.

Croaker shook his head. “The lack of variation is odd; it almost seems  _ purposeful.  _ As though her arrival was calculated and the variables were adjusted accordingly.”

“Do you think it’s the You-Know-What?” August asked, voice dropping just enough. She was far more mindful that their findings hadn’t been as secure as she’d once thought. They hadn’t the slightest clue how the Soul bond was affecting anything.

“The what?” Croaker’s face contorted in confusion before smoothing over as he rolled his eyes. “Our equipment isn’t designed to pick up magical anomalies that do not directly affect time. You’re right, we need to broaden our search.” Croaker then grimaced. “We’ll have to visit Lovegood.”

Augusta’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull in surprise. Croaker going to Lovegood for help—willingly? She’d have thought that goblins would first give their gold away for free.

“Hopefully they haven’t left the office yet,” Augusta merely said as she quickly recomposed herself. She sprang out of her seat, gathering her things. It was later in the day and she expected that most of the Ministry had left the building by now though Unspeakables were notorious for keeping odd hours. There weren’t any set rules on when to ‘clock in’ so to speak. It was completely voluntary for Unspeakables to even do their work in the building which made scheduling intra-departmental meetings an utter nightmare.

“You did notify Birch earlier?” Croaker asked as they waited for the lift.

“Of course,” Augusta reassured him. “She also told me that Lovegood’s been distracted all day—do you think he already knows?”

“Lovegood is not a Seer,” Croaker sneered. “No matter how much he desperately wishes to be.” They stepped inside the thankfully empty carriage and Croaker was silent for a few moments as they began their descent before stating, “If he already knows then he’ll have greater incentive to help retrieve our stolen subjects.”

“Croaker!” Augusta half-shouted half-whispered. “They’re more than just—”

“Don’t be so self-righteous Urey. I know you were practically salivating at the chance of running tests on their bond—even if they have nothing to do with time magic, Soul bonds are rather extraordinary in their own right.”

It was Augusta’s turn to huff. “From an academic standpoint, of course. There’s very little recorded data on Soul bonds but now’s not the time! Who knows what happened to those poor dears especially when the bond is still in its infancy?” They were still children after all—or at least Riddle was. Augusta still felt a few pangs of guilt for taking his wand away even if it had been protocol. Then again, what could a fifth-year student do against a wizard (or witch) who could infiltrate the Department of Mysteries and plant a portal under their noses?

“Poor dears?” Croaker echoed. “If those two aren’t careful we could be looking at a catastrophe of massive proportions.”

“Think happy thoughts,” Augusta chided as they waited for the lift doors to open. The ride had been thankfully short which seemed like a miracle after the last group of Spellcrafters had changed it to incorporate the occasionally spiral—she and Croaker had only had to grab the railings a few times.

Lovegood’s office was sequestered on what many Unspeakables snidely called the ‘forgotten floor’. Namely, where unpopular projects were sentenced a slow and painful demise. Lovegood’s field of study was Soul magic which was as vague as it sounded. He was considered a hack by most of their colleagues considering nearly everyone had different ideas on what a soul was—though no one ever disputed that souls were real. Newly recruited Unspeakables didn’t usually get to choose which departments or projects they were assigned to—Augusta certainly didn’t envy anyone unfortunate enough to be assigned to this dreary, gray floor. She’d been lucky to be assigned to the Temporary Oddities office fresh from passing her exams. Augusta didn’t doubt that anyone assigned to the ‘forgotten floor’ would be quick to submit their paperwork for an immediate transfer.

Up until about five years ago, Lovegood had worked alone—or rather had a blur of assistants each more unremarkable than the last. That was until Birch had come along. Supposedly, as rumors went, Birch had  _ chosen _ the posting. Why the woman would want to work on this floor was beyond Augusta’s understanding but she forced herself to keep an open mind. 

They passed several nondescript doors—all exactly identically bland in color. It was as though the floor had been purposely painted a bland tan color that made your eyes gloss over the details. Augusta certainly had no desire to linger in the empty hallway. Perhaps a very subtle Notice-Me-Not enchantment? Or rather Care-Me-Not, Augusta amusedly thought. She still noticed the doors but had no desire or curiosity to explore them further.

The duo reached the end of the hallway where they saw a door painted in a lovely lavender blush. There was a flower box containing daisies in an eye-catching violet underneath a tarnished door plaque which read ‘Soul and Other’.

“Soul and other?” Augusta read aloud in confusion.

“It’s a catch-all that Lovegood abuses to get assigned to cases which are beyond his scope,” Croaker muttered before knocking brusquely.

The door swung open on its own accord, revealing an office that appeared as though it was split completely down the middle. On one side was an ordinary office setup, a sensible wooden desk, and chair. The other side was extravagantly painted—violets, blues, golds, burgundies—furnished with a pair of twin cream-colored settees. It made Augusta wonder how large Lovegood’s yearly office budget was to splurge on interior decorating. It was the far back wall, however, that immediately grabbed her attention. A large, convoluted Arithmanic calculation was written all over the wallpaper—the two occupants had their backs turned to the door as they studied the equation. There was an ink drawing done in green in the far corner but the smaller figure’s blue robes partially concealed it.

Croaker grumbled when neither occupant acknowledged their presence so Augusta decided to take the lead as she usually did. “Hello there,” she called out trying her best to be personable as they stood in the doorway not quite entering.

“Oh hello! How lovely we very rarely get guests here—terrible location I’m afraid.” Lovegood was a tall, slight man so slight that Augusta was certain a stiff wind would topple him over. His robes were interesting, shifting in the light from a light flushed pink to a darker silver. Augusta especially liked the small flowers embroidered along the hem—they reminded her of her great aunt’s garden.

Birch, on the other hand, had a much stockier stature. Her robes were utilitarian both in cut and design, the dark blue went rather nicely with her red hair which was cropped close to her skull.

Lovegood waved his hand inviting them inside the office though her eyes didn’t miss how the equation faded into the wall as Birch tapped it rhythmically.  Lovegood’s long beard swayed as he flourished his wand, causing a tea service to spring into existence in between the two settees. “And you’ve arrived just in time for tea! Birch simply outdid herself this time. You must try her scones—oh, and do pair it with the raspberry currant, it’s simply divine.”

Croaker sat stiffly on the settee and Augusta hid her amusement as he jostled slightly when the settee extended its length. She was grateful since tea was far better than no meal at all.

The raspberry currant was indeed divine but Augusta was too occupied as she wondered why Lovegood was so ostracized by his peers. The chap was certainly chatty but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—especially since neither Croaker nor Birch had said a single word since they’d sat down.

Lovegood was in the middle of pushing another poppy seed muffin onto Augusta’s plate as he regaled them of some shenanigans he’d experienced in Florence one fine summer in 1883, when Croaker finally abandoned his self-imposed silence. “Where are they?”

He asked so abruptly that Augusta nearly dropped her teacup in surprise.

“I’m afraid that I hadn’t had the time to make any of those lemon cakes you’re so fond of Saul, but perhaps next week—”

Croaker loudly exhaled through his nose. Augusta imagined that if he were a dragon there would be great plumes of smoke exiting each nostril and perhaps a few stray sparks as well. “You know that’s not why we’re here Phileas.”

Lovegood’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I remember how many you ate during the last council meeting—”

The existence of a council was certainly news to Augusta. She felt rather miffed that Croaker hadn’t even mentioned it and made a note to ask about it later.

“Where is Unspeakable Patil?” Croaker ground out—like gnashing his teeth for good measure.

Lovegood’s silvery-blue eyes practically glittered. Augusta felt a little taken aback by the sudden shift in the air.

Birch frowned; it was her first show of emotion during the entire meeting. “You never mentioned one of them was an Unspeakable.”

“It didn’t seem relevant at the time though we were rather preoccupied,” Augusta admitted. The note she’d written was rather hastily scrawled and she felt embarrassed knowing that Birch’s first impression of her was sloppy penmanship.

“Of course it’s relevant,” Lovegood replied, continuing to ignore Croaker’s question altogether. “The calculations have to be very precise you see otherwise it throws everything into quite a mess.”

Augusta suddenly thought of that hurried yet neat scrawl she’d glimpsed before Birch had removed it from the wall. The tea and scones felt like cement in her gut.

“Perhaps you were a bit too occupied searching to take notice but there is something very interesting happening to the fabric of Magic right now.” Lovegood’s eyes were still trained on Croaker, much like a teacher waiting on an answer from a prized pupil.

_ Fabric? _ Augusta’s mind echoed. “We observed a very large disturbance—”

“But nothing since then?” Birch interjected mildly, lightly flicking her wand to add more sugar to her tea. She seemed rather bored with the conversation.

“No,” Augusta reluctantly replied. “Searching the records provided by Orla didn’t help much either. That’s why we came to see if you had noticed anything unusual.”

“Soul magic is a bit difficult to track but the absence of temporal abnormalities implies that someone or rather something is actively counteracting it—inadvertently stabilizing the time stream.” Lovegood began to gather the empty plates by hand and for a while, only the sound of clinking china was heard.

“But that’s, that’s not possible. Not with the current research in Time,” Augusta immediately replied a bit stunned by Lovegood’s conclusion.

Croaker slumped in the settee. “That is precisely why we must find Unspeakable Patil as soon as possible—we need to know how this is happening.”

“I thought it would come as a relief to you, Saul, that our friend—Patil was it?—isn’t going around unbirthing people left and right.”

“It’s unnatural,” Croaker replied firmly. “Patil doesn’t belong in this time—now it’s just a question of how long this magic can maintain her presence without warping time in the process.”

“Is the bond really that powerful that it can render the effects of time travel inert?” Augusta asked quietly. 

Croaker shook his head. “Not all effects—Patil was very fatigued when we arrived.”

Lovegood looked hungry for details. “Were you able to ascertain whether that was due to her journey or if there were other factors in play?”

“Other factors?” Augusta prompted.

“Of course. There hasn’t been a documented case of natural Soul bonding in nearly three centuries—”

“Natural?” For some reason, Augusta’s mind had latched onto that particular word. “Implying that there are—”

“Aberrations,” Birch clipped. “The less said of those the better.” Despite Birch’s warning, Augusta found herself intrigued and a bit frightened as well. And she had thought time travel was rather exciting!

“They will be at their most vulnerable until it stabilizes—now is likely our best chance of finding them.”

“Our?” Croaker began to bluster.

Augusta sensing a quarrel a mile away merely interrupted hastily, “Any idea how long that will last?”

Lovegood stroked his beard as he gave a contemplative hum. “Hard to say. Birch has made great progress with the calculations, hopefully, if we pool our information we can narrow the search area to a reasonable amount.”

Augusta’s face curdled. Arithmancy wasn’t her favorite subject but if it meant she’d be able to admire Birch’s blue eyes up close, well, Augusta would definitely dust off that ‘Exceeded Expectations’ Professor Milliard had begrudgingly given her.

  
  


 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Shout out to Merriam Webster for satisfying my etymology curiosity.
> 
> Why do we not know how old Binns is? Or how long he’s been teaching—as a ghost or otherwise?


	6. Shiny Sickle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: snakes, blood, magical violence, and (terrible) poetry

Tom certainly wasn't a fool. While he had wanted to provoke answers from her, he was smarter than to instigate a fight with a witch with unknown powers. "Apologies, sometimes my curiosity runs ahead of me." The platitude was false but Tom also knew that he would get nowhere if he convinced the witch to hate him so quickly.

The air was tense until Patil deflated; the tenseness in her shoulders collapsed, causing her to hunch slightly in her chair. "I'm sorry for being rather short with you but I don't particularly relish remembering that time of my life. It's best if it was left in the past—er—future." She gave him a tight smile. It was enough to let him know that he should be a bit more measured in his approach moving forward.

It was not enough to deter him completely as he asked, "How old were you?" He was far more curious about the timeline. He had managed to glean that she'd become an Unspeakable after the conflict had ended but something was not quite adding up.

"Seventh year," Patil responded in a hushed almost resigned tone. "Hogwarts had the worst of it."

Tom's eyebrows rose—her answer had taken him by such surprise that some of the emotion on his face was actually genuine. He could not fathom a world where even Hogwarts—the safest place,  _his_  safest place—was embroiled in violence. He felt a surge of irrational anger. How could they desecrate Hogwarts by dragging it into their petty squabbles? How could they even dare—?

Tom tried to imagine its cavernous corridors and labyrinthine hallways and was unable to make them synonymous with a warzone. He found himself frowning. Even as cynical as Tom was (or rather pragmatic), Hogwarts was always apart. Always above anything else. Untouched as the haven it was.

Hogwarts had been Tom's since the moment Dumbledore had let the word slip from his lips. Even if it was decades in the future, Tom felt a sense of urgency that he could not let that happen.

On the other hand, Patil's answer made her behavior seem even more bizarre. He expected a bit more caution from someone who'd fought a war before reaching her majority. Why had she walked through the mirror so brazenly? And without a wand at that. Perhaps war had robbed her of her sense. Tom had seen a few of those before—remnants of the Great War—their eyes always trained on some unforeseen danger that haunted their living moments. Though they too had been proven right eventually as the world was soon pulled into even more conflict.

"Perhaps it's best that we change the subject," Patil suggested as Tom digested the revelation. "I'm rather curious of your Parseltongue abilities. Have you managed to find any decent reference manuals on the written portion of the language? Though I can't imagine Hogwarts would be the best place to look even if Slytherin was a Parselmouth."

Patil was unfortunately correct. Any mention of Parseltongue was nearly always in passing and usually in some rather musty history tome. He hadn't found anything practical and when his search in the Restricted Section had turned up empty as well, Tom had found himself abandoning that particular pursuit. He supposed he could have tried through a private collector though that was ludicrous considering his lack of funds. He had mostly focused on the origin of his ability—of his blood more than anything.

"You would be correct," Tom answered with some forced nonchalance. It would do to let her know how just hungry he was for information.

She sighed. "It's a shame that my books are sixty years in the future. I had a primer I managed to get my hands on during my travels on the continent."

"A primer? Like for children?" Why would anyone spend their time reading children's books? Even if they were supposedly written in Parselscript.

Patil nodded, smiling at his confusion. "I was told it was a child's spellbook. An introduction to Parselscript and the origins of the language itself. It has such a rich culture and heritage. Did you know that every Speaker can trace their lineage back to the one they call Neith, mother of Apep the Swallower of Suns?"

Tom knew exactly what Mrs. Cole would have said about that. Though even he had to admit that Swallower of Suns had a rather  _certain_  ring to it. "Apep, isn't that from Egyptian mythology?"

Patil's eyes lit up, eagerly settling into the topic. "Bringer of Chaos and Devourer of Souls."

Tom found himself scoffing since Patil made it sound like she was retelling a story meant to scare children into obedience. "So I should be able to trace my Parseltongue ancestry to the beginning of time?" Apep was said to be the brother of Ra and if Parseltongue was said to come from his mother, then the language was quite ancient.

"There have always been Parselmouths just as there has always been magic. Usually passed down from mother to child," Patil replied matter of factly.

Tom blinked once then twice. "Is that fact?" Despite the fact that he had asked, Tom was already fully prepared to ignore her answer. All this time he had been certain that he received his magic—received Parseltongue—from his father. Had that simply been yet another thing he was wrong about? Another common fact that he hadn't known due to his Muggle upbringing? No—no, if his mother was a witch then she wouldn't have died! She wouldn't have left him there to rot in that miserable orphanage. Wizards considered children to be sacred if his mother had been a witch then—

Patil shrugged, utterly not understanding why it was so important for Tom to know. "Traditionally it was said magic is passed from mother to child but with the existence of Muggleborns, that theory's a bit dicey. Wizards used to think that a child's magical inheritance depended on their mother's abilities—though I suppose some still do—but I think that's because of how difficult childbirth can be."

"Childbirth is difficult?" Tom unknowingly parroted the words while rapidly blinking. "But they have magic—"

Patil had the audacity to snort at him. "I suppose as a bloke you likely wouldn't really understand but childbirth is considered one of the most magically taxing events a witch endures. There was an archaic scale in the 1600s that measured a witch's power by the number of magical children she'd birth and raise to their majority." Tom found himself gaping and Patil only nodded along as though agreeing with him. "It was rather barbaric, you're completely right. Solely basing a person's worth on their blood and fecundity? Might as well as branded witches like cattle."

Tom forcefully swallowed, not wanting to believe that perhaps he had been looking at his parents incorrectly all these years. "You said you had a primer?"

Patil didn't comment on the unsubtle change of topic instead responded, "Used to have one, yeah. I did manage to learn a bit of it though 'learn' is an exaggeration. I mostly copied lines like an illiterate child. Though thinking about it now has given me the semblance of an idea."

Tom watched curiously as she stood on shaky legs. He wondered if Patil was always this unsteady or if this was simply yet another unexpected consequence of everything that had occurred within the past eight hours.

"What's your idea?" He asked as she began to kneel in the dirt.

"Well, we may not have a primer nor ink but I did manage to get this."

Tom's stomach dropped when she saw her pull a piece of wood from her robes. Had she possessed a wand this entire time? His mind calmed when he recognized its odd pale color—an exact match to the large piece of driftwood Patil had been ogling earlier. He noticed that her hands were rubbed raw—she'd likely snapped a smaller branch off rather than find one in the sand.

"And how, may I ask, is a piece of driftwood going to help?" Even if he had seen what Patil had done with ink and blood, this was starting to border insanity in Tom's mind. This couldn't possibly be magic.

"There's magic in everything, the older items are absolutely saturated with it. Well, except for this thing called 'plastic' that the Muggles invented out of petroleum but driftwood has. . ."

It occurred to Tom that Patil was rather quiet until she got started, then she would chatter more than a bird. The witch continued to speak as she drew but Tom found himself slowly tuning out her words, focusing only on her actions. Her hands were steady likely because she was going sluggishly slow. There were long moments when Patil's hand would stop, likely because she was remembering what the next motion was. She drew large looping characters, each interconnected in such a way that she never once raised the piece of driftwood away from the floor. She crawled as the inscription continued, going around the chairs in a wide oval shape.

"When I first encountered Parselscript it looked more like squiggles than anything actually legible. A lot of wizards have actually mistaken it as doodles and for a while, I was certain that my own instructor was having me on. . ."

Tom didn't necessarily disagree with the assumption. The lines continued to be indecipherable to him, seeing only convoluted scribbling. Even when Patil had stopped, finally raising the driftwood from the dirt, and after he had waited for a few moments they remained stubbornly unintelligible.

The lines remained stationary, looking more like a child who'd played in the dirt or rather the crude imaginings of a mad witch. Tom attempted to withhold his sneer but it was a poor attempt.

Patil frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion and disappointment. "I suppose it was a shot in a dark—writing from memory without a reference. Just as well that Parselscript is harder to master than Parseltongue. "

Despite his disdain, Tom conceded that his curiosity had been ignited. Runes were time-consuming and finicky but any connection to his abilities as a Parselmouth—to his ancestry—was precious. Even if Patil mistakenly believed his mother had been a Speaker.

Tom silently resolved to renew his search for information on Parseltongue, perhaps scouring the Restricted Section with a finer comb. Not for a moment did he allow himself to consider that his return to Hogwarts was not written in stone. He would go back to the castle in September, regardless of whatever farce Patil had unwittingly dragged him into.

"We should try to rest," Patil suggested barely stifling a yawn as she rose from the ground. While Tom had no intention of sleeping in such a precarious situation—he made the motions to agree with her suggestion though he was certain that tonight would be another sleepless night.

No, he'd sleep once he had his wand safely in hand.

* * *

Tom dreamt.

He was flying just above the clouds, the sky was a brilliant blue and the wind felt warm against his skin. He outstretched his fingers, marveling as they brushed the edges of the clouds. Distantly he knew he shouldn't feel calm. He had no idea how he was flying or how to even control it but strangely those facts didn't bother him. Any worries he had were hard to hold onto as though they were more immaterial than the clouds around him.

The sky darkened much to his confusion and when he tilted his head up for a split moment, he mistakenly believed he was staring up at the night's sky. After a moment he realized what he was, in fact, seeing were the stark black feathers of an enormous bird flying directly overhead. He should have felt afraid since the creature was as large as a dragon but he only felt a sense of wonder akin to how he used to feel about magic—how he felt about it when he was taking his first steps as a wizard. He had always used magic as a weapon, as a way to inflict pain on the world—no, he remembered the day he learned he was a Parselmouth. Spotting the green snake hiding in the grass, remembering the way its tongue moved and the wonder and awe he felt as it called to him. The way its scales felt underneath his fingertips silken smooth—smoother than any sheet he'd find in the orphanage.

The bird screeched, tearing Tom from his reverie. Time had passed quickly for the sky was already darkening, bleeding orange and pink as they continued to sail through the air. The clouds dispersed to reveal that they were sailing over a great ocean, dark and turbulent. Apprehension began to seep into Tom's mind—something was wrong.

The giant bird released another terrible screech, the sound ringing in his ear for several moments before it dove through the clouds. Tom felt its absence as obvious as a winter breeze, chilling his flesh to the bone.

He spotted a dark speck no larger than his thumb out on the horizon. His speed increased, shifting from lackadaisical to urgent without warning. The speck grew until he realized that it was actually a landmass—a single island surrounded by the vastness of the ocean. Tom was hurtling towards it without any control, wind whipping his clothing and face.

As Tom approached the island, he was startled to find a large snake coiled upon an outcropping of stone. It towered like a mountain; its amber eyes large enough to rival the sun. Its mouth was cavern-like, gaping open and lined with jagged yellow fangs larger than buildings.

It was then that his flight turned freefall. His heart stopping as he fell through the air, body twisting and wrenching as he struggled to see, to breathe, to think. At one point he remembered and screamed Parseltongue.

But why would a giant have any reason to listen to an ant?

The serpent did not answer his commands nor his pleas. He reached desperately for his magic as his body twisted through the air. It was fruitless; he felt as though he was trying to capture a river with his bare hands. Tom could just barely feel magic just outside his grasp but for whatever reason, it refused to bend, to obey his will.

He was going to die, Tom realized, and not even his magic would save him.

* * *

Tom woke with a great start, gasping for breath. His skin felt as though it was on fire, burning away from his flesh. He had fallen asleep in front of the stove which still kept the room dimly lit. Tom grimaced as he sat up straight—his bones ached from sleeping in a chair but the pain felt deeper than that. As though something was trying to slowly but surely pull the meat off his bones.

He glanced to left, expecting to find Patil fast asleep but the chair was conspicuously empty. His neck jerked in surprise as he inspected each corner of the room but Patil was nowhere to be found. Had she poisoned him? He had to dismiss the possibility—Tom himself had prepared the tea. She could have tainted the water somehow; the only moment he hadn't kept her in his sight was when she had gone to draw water from the hand pump.

It would certainly explain how he managed to fall asleep in such a strange and dangerous place without his wand by his side.

The door to the cottage swung open noisily causing Tom to flinch.

Patil staggered in—no that was false since her feet weren't even touching the ground. She was levitating, her body nearly as limp as a rag doll and her eyes closed as though she was still asleep. Behind her stood a man; his wand at the ready in his head keeping it aimed at Patil and Tom. Whatever warmth inside the cottage was gone and Tom found himself frozen in place.

"Pity she didn't try to run," the man rasped. His English was accented, Tom quietly noted. The man then laughed. "It's always a bit more fun that way."

Patil floated over to the spare chair where the man settled her so gently that the chair didn't even creak underneath her weight. His care was directly at odds with the bruise blossoming on her face and the cut at the corner of her mouth.

Irritation and fear ran in tandem in Tom's mind though there was an undercurrent of practicality. He needed to steal the man's wand—the sooner the better.

"Let's wake her up, shall we?" The man flicked his wrist in a sharp curve while muttering something under his breath, causing Patil to gasp into wakefulness as though something was trying to crush her windpipe. Tom could feel echoes of her pain—it was so visible on her face and made his own aching flesh throb harder. Her eyes blinked rapidly and the man hummed in approval. "Good, now that everyone is accounted for—we can finally leave."

Tom's mind quickly swept over the stranger's details as though to find some clues to weakness or vulnerability but nothing was forthcoming. He was dressed in a russet brown suit, pressed clean and crisp in a way that only magic could manage. There was nothing familiar in the man's face except for that infuriating smugness that radiated out of his eyes. Self-assured in the way only a man holding a wand at two defenseless children could be.

"The two of you certainly don't look like much." The man tittered, privy to a joke only he knew. He shrugged lightly as though dismissing whatever thought had entered his mind. "But they're payin' a very shiny sickle for the both of you."

Tom bit the side of his mouth to prevent the revelation from showing on his face. It was still shocking to hear the man confirm beyond a doubt that they were being hunted like animals.

"You're utterly depraved." Patil spat literal blood, spraying bloody spittle across the floor.

The man wrinkled his nose, muttering something underneath his breath. Tom had the vaguest idea that it was familiar but his blood was pounding too loudly in his own head for him to discern the words he may haven spoken. The man then flicked his wrist and Tom swore he felt his neurons explode in his mind. Pain searing as bright and sharp as sparks from a loud fire. His body would have jerked out of his seat but conjured rope tied his arms behind the back of the chair.

"Careful, lass, they said nothing about keepin' your brain between your ears." The wizard sounded utterly bored before pulling out a pocket watch, its chain was a dull silver seemingly never polished.

It was difficult for Tom to prioritize anything else besides the pain but he focused on the weight of the knife in his pocket, using it as an anchor as the drowning undercurrent of his other less practical thoughts. As a young child, he'd been able to levitate things with varying amounts of success. It had always left him with skull-splitting migraines especially if the object was particularly large but he had always managed—he'd once made a book fly around his room like a bird before it ripped itself from its cover.

He could move the knife until it cut the bindings on his hands—conjured rope was still rope after all. But after he had his hands free then what? Surprise the wizard by throwing a rusted knife at his chest?

His mental fretting was interrupted by a softly hissed,  _"Who summoned me?"_

Tom dared not to glance at the snake—because it had to be a snake because he'd recognize Patil's voice especially if she was speaking Parseltongue and the wizard hadn't even glanced up from his watch—though he desperately wanted to.

"Who's they?" Patil asked, her voice sounding raw. Tom did not allow his eyes to glance in her direction even as he wondered if she had heard the snake or if the pounding in his head was making him hear voices.

The wizard shifted in place, eyes lifting up from the face of his watch to look Patil directly in the eyes. "Unless you've got dung for sense, you'd best be keepin' quiet. I'm sure a Naga's tongue would buy me a dragon made o' gold. Don't think you'll be needin' it much where you're going."

Patil gasped loudly, and it was the perfect cover for Tom to glance at the snake slithering in the dirt. Long and sinuous as it trailed through the dirt and marred Patil's scribbling. It was unlike any serpent Tom had ever seen before with its cherry-red scales and black crossbands but that mattered little to him at the moment as he answered,  _"Your Speaker commands you."_

The serpent cocked its head, tasting the air before beginning to coil and Tom yanked at the magic in his veins. His mind skimmed through dozens of memories—he'd done this very action dozens of times in the early days of his youth—and he refused to falter now, refused to let his magic fail him now when he needed it most. Even if it had been years since he'd done something more complex with his magic than simply unlock a door without his wand.

Tom felt the knife rattle in his pocket.

Patil kept talking—Merlin, how did she ever survive a war if she kept talking?— "If my tongue's worth that much then I don't think  _they'll_  be glad to see my blood's been spilt."

The wizard moved closer to where Patil was bound to her chair. "Now listen here—"

Tom's timing wasn't perfect much to his disgust but it was adequate.

The serpent suddenly lunged, latching itself onto the wizard's ankle embedding its fangs deep into flesh and bone. The wizard screamed, limbs flailing wildly as Tom's magic pulled on the knife, ripping the seam of his pocket before barely arching around his torso and slicing through the rope and the flesh of his forearms.

His hands were slick with blood as Tom dove forward, mind and will utterly focused on a single point—the wand the wizard had dropped in his panic as the snake clung to his limb before steadily entwining itself around both of his legs.

Tom clenched his jaw, silencing the pain as he dove forward slightly grimacing as his blood mixed with the dirt floor as he reached for the wand. Triumph was sweet even if it meant a bloodstained wand and sore knees. He shuffled backward, the wand held in a bruising grip, careful to keep his distance from the wizard. Scrambling to his feet, he tried to keep his breathing steady as he finally decided to glance over at Patil who had shouted once the serpent had attacked but had since quieted.

Her eyes were wide with shock; she pursed her lips as she switched her gaze from him to their would-be-captor and back to him. For a long moment, Tom considered his options. Disposing of the wizard, of course, took priority but what would he do with Patil? He could just leave her here—he was sure the Unspeakables had some method of tracking her whereabouts considering how quickly they'd arrived in his room. But they'd inevitably ask questions—Obliviating one witch was trivial but an entire department was a bit more difficult.

No, it'd be best if he took her with him. Whoever was hunting them wanted them  _both_  for some reason and Tom was determined to get his answers first. Patil clearly knew much more than she let on and Tom would know—even if he had to rip it out of her mind first.

The wand felt brittle in his hands as though it was a dry twig fit to snap if he flexed it a certain way. Nonetheless, all it took was a flick of his wrist to free her from her bonds and siphon off most of the excess blood off his hands. The cut, thankfully, was relatively shallow but Tom was unsure of attempting healing magic for the first time particularly with a wand that seemed so fragile.

Patil was unafraid as she looked up at him, the bloodstained wand still outstretched in his hand. Rather, she turned all of her focus onto the wizard squirming ineffectually against the serpent's iron-tight hold. Its long sinewy body now wrapped snugly around his torso and even encircled his throat—tight enough to make his breathing forceful and harsh.

" _Can you let him go?"_  Patil asked quietly.

Both Tom and the serpent hissed in surprise to her question but the serpent spoke first.  _"Why would I do such a thing? The pact is binding—payment for protection."_

"Payment?" Patil echoed in English before shaking her head.  _"We—I need to know why. Who sent him? How did he know to find us?"_

" _What payment?"_ Tom first asked, they likely still had time to retrieve the wizard from the serpent's grasp. Unless of course, the venom killed him first.

" _Blood of the speaker was spilt and offered."_ His eyes tracked to where Patil had spat blood on the floor before shifting to look at the drops around the chair where he had been bound.

He'd never summoned a serpent with his blood before. Tom didn't even think it was possible unless Patil's scribbling hadn't been entirely useless. He let his eyes drift over the dirt, blinking as the Runes shifted before his eyes. They were moving ever so slightly until he made out the words:

> " **Seven drops spilt and offered.**
> 
> **O' ware to those who wander'd** —
> 
> **Keep your tongue sharp**
> 
> **Lest the fool won't linger,**
> 
> **For the Naga too**
> 
> **must have its dinner."**

"By Lakshmi's luck, it actually  _worked,_ " Padma stated breathlessly, gaze entirely focused on the ground. He watched her kneel in the dirt, hands gently moving towards the twisting inscription.

Tom cleared his throat. "Perhaps that can wait for another time?" He gestured meaningfully at their now captive while sucking his teeth. Ravenclaws were all the same—always focused on the entirely  _wrong_  thing.

"Well the primer certainly didn't mention  _anything_  like that," Patil muttered under her breath while frowning. She directed her attention to Tom, stepping towards him.  _"We can't leave him like this—he's the only source of information we have at the moment."_

Tom frowned, he had half a mind to exact revenge especially with how quickly his blood and magic rushed in his veins but he forcibly exhaled. Patil was correct.

" _How long until the venom runs its course?"_ Tom asked the serpent; it wouldn't do if the man just dropped dead within the next few minutes.

" _Liquefaction takes several hours at the least. I've never had prey this large before—I'll be feasting for weeks."_ While snake couldn't quite smile, its eyes positively gleamed in the lowlight of the cottage. It even gave an excited hiss, squeezing its prey even harder for a moment making the wizard give out a sputtered curse.

" _Well, if we've got a few hours, could you at least ease off his throat? I imagine it must be difficult to talk with a snake wrapped around his neck."_

To Tom's great surprise, the snake did just that even if it gave her a displeased and irritated look.

The wizard took great gasps of air, his body shuddering as he was fully aware that his breaths were literally numbered now. Tom watched as Patil crouched slightly, making sure she caught the eyes of their would-be captor and held his gaze evenly.

"Now then, we've just learned that your organs are literally liquefying by the moment. So you have any useful information it would be best to share with the class, hm?" She smiled as though she'd just invited him to tea.

Tom fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose when the wizard merely cursed at her loudly, his attempts at freeing himself become much more pronounced and frantic. A typical Berkeley hunt then, of course.

He had initially been hesitant to reveal his Legilimency abilities to Patil, especially since it was still a budding skill and not quite an outright ability but talking to the wizard was going to get them nowhere. Especially since Tom was reticent to extract the snake from the wizard, it was a small taste of the pain he expected to extricate in due time.

So Tom pulled on his magic, but rather than diverting it to the wand in his hand, he drew it further upwards, feeling it coalesce in the blind spot of his eyes. It was difficult—hazardous more like—the wizard's mind was a mess of panic, paranoia, and anxiety. Tom felt the emotions sharply jab his forehead as though they were physical blows. Traditional Legilimency would be near-impossible in this state even if Tom managed to yank on his consciousness like a like an errant thread.

Unbidden, a memory flew to the forefront of his mind. A well-fed white bunny hypnotized by his eyes and voice—calm, too calm for what was about to happen. That had been long ago before he even really understood what was in his blood. He hadn't used Latin or even Parseltongue—no just the King's English that the teachers would beat into them coupled with eye contact. That had been enough to convince two children never to speak of that dark afternoon in the cave even if fear warped them from the inside out—enough to convince a rabbit's heart to stop beating. He forced his magic down into his throat and mouth kept it in his throat and mouth, letting it seep into the flesh of his tongue.

"Perhaps it would be best to salvage your first impression with an introduction. A proper introduction is only polite, after all." Tom heard Patil shift slightly but he kept his gaze locked onto the wizard. Tom had always wondered what his voice sounded like in this state—he'd yet to encounter the ability in any book so far—but no one ever seemed to notice him using it at Hogwarts. He would rather conclude that this was a unique talent altogether, something the world had never seen before.

The wizard's blue eyes were blown wide, almost glassy in appearance. For several moments all the man did was stare in a dazed sort of confusion which reminded Tom of Mrs. Cole whenever she saw the bottom of a gin bottle. Finally, he opened his mouth and responded in a soft mumble, "Linus Maloney."

Tom smiled. "Pleasure. Now I'm sure you're well aware of who we are—"

"The Naganath—" the wizard gasped before repeating the word over and over under his breath, whatever brief calm Tom had forced him into was beginning to spiral into deep anxiety. "NaganathNaganathNaganath—"

"None of that now, Mr. Maloney." Tom's displeasure sank into his voice causing Maloney to flinch. "Tell us why you brought us here."

"No Ministry meddling—isolate then trap as κυνηγός instructed." Maloney choked out. The man started weeping openly now, tears streaming down his whiskered face as he grunted.

But why here? Tom wanted to ask but he was loathe to draw this to Patil's attention. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to snoop around the caves, even as young as he had been, Tom was certain that the mark of his magic was still there. The best way to avoid uncomfortable questions was to keep them from being asked.

Before Tom could ask what he meant, Patil decided then to speak up. "He's using Greek for 'Huntress', certainly pretentious when they seem like incompetent kidnappers."

"Who is the Huntress?" Tom asked, his magic giving a bit of a forceful push.

Maloney sniffed wetly, snot joining his tears. "She won't forgive this failure—she'll find us, find you and then she'll—"

His words ended with a sharp  _crack!_  as Maloney and snake disappeared from view entirely leaving behind faint lines in the dirt.

Maloney's sudden absence was absolutely jarring to Tom, causing a faint sharp pulse just behind his eyes and at the center of his throat.

"Illegal portkey," Patil grumbled. "Must have gone off in his pocket."

Tom clutched his head, unable to respond to her theory due to the pain of the magical backlash. He made a mental note to ensure that would not happen during future attempts—he very nearly dropped the wand because of it.

"You didn't heal the cut," Padma murmured. "And what was that spell that you used? Your eyes almost—" She stopped mid-sentence to abruptly rub her arm uncomfortably. Tom nearly flinched when she pulled at his sleeve to take a closer look at the broken skin of his forearm. "The incantation is Episkey. Wand movement is simple, just point but keep it steady okay?"

While Tom was relieved that she didn't attempt to take the wand from him, he couldn't understand why she simply gave him the incantation rather than just perform the healing herself.

Patil interpreted his reticence incorrectly. "Don't worry about the Trace. It doesn't track individuals but rather where magic is performed. Seeing as we're in the middle of bloody nowhere, I doubt it'll attract very much attention." The Trace was the last thing on Tom's mind at the moment but he very much wasn't going to tell her that.

"Episkey," Tom stated firmly, watching as his skin knit back together neatly only leaving behind a bright pink scar.

"Excellent, now—"

"Why did he call you a Naga?" Tom asked. "And what is a Naga anyway?" That seemed to be awfully pertinent information at the moment. Especially if Maloney had threatened to sell her tongue for a sum of money.

Patil's face contorted, the two main emotions seemed to be doubt and discomfort. "I think it's related to whatever caused me to suddenly understand Parseltongue."

He was dissatisfied with her answer and chose to push his magic back into his eyes. Legilimency, then. Hopefully, it would actually  _work_  this time.

She looked away, chewing on her lip furiously. "We need to leave this place at once. He put up a fairly large Anti-Disapparition Jinx around the area. They've likely already realized that they've failed and this is the first place they'll look for us."

Tom didn't like this one bit but surrendered to the fact that he wouldn't be letting Patil out of his sight until he extracted every last drop of information hiding in that head of hers. "What are you suggesting?"

"Side-Along Apparition—the Knight Bus will draw unwanted attention and I've left my galleons in the future."

"The Knight what?" Wizards used buses? Why on Earth had he been using Muggle means to get to King's Cross every year then?

Patil was already out the door, ignoring his question. Tom clenched the wand in his fist but quickly followed, making sure to slam the door behind him.

The air was calm in a way that made Tom's skin prickle. The waves continued to crash against the shoreline but there was an ominous silence that blanketed their surroundings.

Patil had stopped closer to the shoreline though the ground was still solid dirt rather than sand.

"How do you know this is far enough?" Tom asked.

She squinted at him. "Can't you feel—nevermind that now. I'll explain later just give me the wand."

Tom reluctantly stepped closer; his stomach dropped when Patil looped her arm around his with a huff. He kept a tight hold on her shoulder and elbow, careful to keep his hands on fabric at all times after pushing the wand into her waiting palm.

Patil grimaced a bit, the wand was still a bit sticky from the blood before taking a deep, cleansing breath. "Any complaints against Hogsmeade?"

"You mean to take us to Hogwarts?" Tom asked half-startled by the suggestion. He would have thought she'd take them back to the Department of Mysteries. Though he could understand her reasoning, the hunt had started there after all. "Make sure to Apparate us outside the gate. You can't Apparate onto the grounds directly."

She acknowledged his words with a nod before closing her eyes.

"Full disclosure," Patil started as she squeezed his arm tightly—Tom ignored the way her warmth seemed to burn him, "I failed my Apparition Exam three times."

"You—"

_**Pop!** _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Calliophis bibroni don't usually grow that long but eh, it was summoned by magic so give me a break will ya?
> 
> Berkeley hunt is a stand-in for a fairly naughty word. I did my best to research some Cockney rhyming slang but it's difficult to insert into dialogue at the moment—hopefully soon though! Always liked the idea of prim and proper Tom Riddle having the most atrocious accent that he hides from the posh Purebloods.
> 
> Thank you for the reviews! Can't wait to read your thoughts on this chapter :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please review.


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